All Along
by Celtic Quill
Summary: Sometimes, you find true love in the most unexpected person. And sometimes, that person has been there all along. Jeff/Annie/Abed love triangle.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is my very first _Community_ fanfiction. :D I'm kind of nervous with how it will be received, but I really hope you guys enjoy it! It's been a lot of fun to write so far. This story is told in Annie's first person POV. In this first chapter, I was just beginning to find my footing with writing their voices and the tone of the story, but I hope it still turned out well.

Please don't forget to review; positive feedback is the sweetest kind of candy to us writers. :) And I do appreciate constructive criticism, as well.

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><p>CHAPTER ONE<p>

I take my usual seat at our study group table. Nobody else has arrived yet. As per usual, I am early. Fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds early, to be exact. Just the way I like it.

I pull out a notebook, textbook, a fuzzy purple pen. Standard studying equipment.

I begin to pore over my notes. The words blur together; I can't concentrate.

"Hey, Annie," says a familiar voice. A welcome distraction from my uncharacteristically boring coursework.

I look up to see Abed sitting down in the chair across from mine.

"Hi, Abed," I say, a sunny smile stretching across my face. "How are you?"

"Terrific," he says. Ironically, his voice is a complete monotone toward such a happy adjective. But Abed's voice is literally _always_ monotone. Not in a dull, boring way, but in a strangely relaxing way.

"How are you?" he asks, his tone barely even able to add the inflection of a question toward the end. Sometimes, it's hard to tell when he is inquiring or making a statement.

"I'm fine," I reply. "Bored, actually. I just can't tap into these Biochemistry notes."

"Your pen is leaking," he says. "A real shame, too; that dark purple ink is getting all over your new white sweater. I can see the cotton fibers soaking up the color. That's going to leave a stain." He says all of this very fast, as if he's spitting out each word as it rapidly pops into his brain, though his tone is, of course, empty. Devoid of any emotion.

But he gives a cock of his head toward the right, and his thin mouth purses, so I know he feels bad for me and my sweater, which of course he has noticed is new, because Abed notices and remembers everything.

"Oh no!" I gasp, quickly dropping my pen to the table and pulling out the neckline of my shirt to inspect the damage. Sure enough, all down the front is a dribble of evil violet. I feel like a toddler who's just spilled their grape juice on their Sunday school dress: panicked and incompetent.

"What am I going to do, Abed?" I shriek, jumping up from my chair and desperately fanning my hands up and down my shirt.

"Ooh, I wouldn't do that if I were you; by applying a current of cool air, you are actually helping the stain set in faster."

I have to bite back a curse word at this revelation. "I have a job interview in forty minutes! I spent _three days_ debating with myself on which outfit I should wear. This one was the perfect combination of 'responsible,' 'can-do attitude,' and 'works will with others.' I can't go home and change; we live too far away, and the job interview is just down the street from here!"

I am talking fast, faster than Abed, faster than an auctioneer. But Abed catches every word.

"Here, take mine," he says, standing up from his seat and pulling off his blue-and-green striped cardigan in one fluid motion. He wears a plain black V-neck shirt underneath that shows off his smooth, long neck.

"Granted, the fit will probably be too long and tight for you, as you have curves in place of my Olive Oil from _Pop-Eye_'s stick-straight body, but the alternating stripes of lime green and dark blue will really bring out the fascinating shades of your big Bambi eyes."

For some reason, my heart gives a little flutter at his compliment, at the way he looks at me, at the way he's just literally given me the shirt off his back – at everything. I feel a smile spreading across my face as an unbidden blush begins to prick heat beneath my cheeks.

"Gee, thanks, Abed," I gush, taking the proffered cardigan.

Immediately, I love the smell of it: half-pine-scented-deodorant and half Abed's natural state, warm and slightly brown-sugar-sweet. I have to resist the crazy urge to press the soft fabric against my nose and breathe it in.

I glance down at my black mini-skirt and my strappy red high-heels. The white sweater I paired with it would definitely have looked better than this green-and-blue one. Now I won't look as professional. But, for some reason, I am actually sort of glad that I will be wearing Abed's clothing to my job interview: it feels a bit like a good luck charm.

"No problem," Abed says. "It'll look great on you. Then again, everything looks great on you, Annie."

He graces me with a rare Abed-smile, his lips pulling upward as his eyes sparkle expectantly. It appears in a flash and vanishes even sooner, but it had been there, and the warmth of it made me automatically smile back. Plus, his sweet words made my blush intensify.

"Aw, thanks, Abed!" I fold the sweater over my arm and look down at the simple pattern, avoiding eye-contact. I really don't want him to notice my reddening cheeks. "I'm, uh, going to go to the ladies' room to change."

"All right."

I look up at him and see that he's still staring at me. Unblinking, sort of robotically.

Everyone in our study group is used to it by now, his default stare, but today, that look strokes a chill down my spine. A chill that is not at all unpleasant.

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><p>"It didn't fit," I tell him five minutes later. I am back in my stained white sweater, his cardigan folded into a neat square over my shoulder. I do a little what-can-you-do? frown and hand him the cardigan back.<p>

"I thought it might not," he says wisely. "Your girlish form filled it out too much, I'm assuming."

"Um..." I cross my arms over my chest.

"Here, why not try my other shirt?" Abed suggests. "It's not as tight as the cardigan, and the V-neck style it sports should be more accommodating to your frame. Plus, the black of it combined with your black skirt will make your red shoes and thin gold-colored headband pop even more."

"You have more fashion expertise than Joan Rivers," I laugh.

"Ah, well, fashion, like all things, can be solved by simple formulas and algorithms that equal your desired result. But instead of using numbers, you use colors and patterns and cuts and hemlines and the like to spot the incoming trends and discover what makes a proper ensemble."

I smile; he is cute when he gets like this, spewing off the fascinating way in which he views the world as if it should be the norm for everybody. And, you know what? Maybe it should be.

"Abed, I can't take your shirt," I say. "Then you'll be topless."

"It's all right," he shrugs. "The societal double-standard by which we view different genders' bodies ensures that men can be found without a shirt on in public, so long as they don't have beer bellies or an excess amount of hair."

"I don't know..." I hedge.

"I can always wear my sweater without the shirt under it," he points out. "I can button it up to hide my nude flesh from unsuspecting eyes."

"Okay," I say. "Why not?"

And at that, he pulls off his shirt in a single movement and tosses it at me. I catch it in one hand, giggling.

"Here," I hand him his sweater.

And that's when my eyes zero in on his chest, his arms – of how he is skinny, but not scrawny. Of how he has beautiful skin, smooth as glass and a rich shade of dark caramel with a healthy tint of gold.

My breath catches in my throat; my heart speeds up.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" Abed asks, curiosity coloring his words.

Embarrassed, I rip my eyes away from his naked upper torso and force myself to look into his eyes. _Not guilty, the defendant pleads, going to all measures to ensure she looks as non-shamefaced as possible, not breaking eye-contact with her prosecutor._

"Um, what…what? No…uhm," I flounder, giving a horribly fake-sounding chuckle that sounds like a dying pig's last snort.

"You were staring at my chest," says Abed, tilting his head and widening his eyes. "And now your face is turning as red as the Weasley family's hair."

_And the defendant is found: guilty as charged._

I feel suddenly and irrationally angry. "Oh, just put a shirt on, Abed!" I snap before spinning on my heel and having to force myself to walk-don't-run to the bathroom.

When I get in there and lock myself into the back stall, I quickly swap out my stained white sweater for Abed's black V-neck shirt. It is a poly-cotton blend and fits comfortably. It also smells just as good as his cardigan sweater did.

My heart beats like crazy. What is _wrong_ with me? Why am I acting like a hormone-ridden schoolgirl?

I've never felt this out of sorts around Abed before. Ever! Well…okay…except for that time last year when we'd kissed during the Paintball War. For weeks after that, I hadn't been able to be in the same room – heck, the same _building_ – as him without feeling my stomach clenching tightly and my heart spinning and twirling like a drunken ballerina.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I leave the stall and look at my reflection in the square mirror over one of the sinks. The shirt looks nice on me; maybe a bit drab, but aren't job interview outfits _supposed_ to be overly modest and conservative? And Abed had been right: the black-on-black really makes my headband and high-heels pop more. I splash some water on my face, careful not to smear my eyeliner or mascara, blot off the cool moisture with a scratchy paper towel, and head out of the bathroom.

When I get to the study room, I see that Britta, Shirley, and Jeff have arrived. I enter quietly and head over to the table. Thankfully, Abed is now wearing his cardigan sweater, which he has buttoned all the way up to his neck. It looks pretty ridiculous, and despite myself, I grin and fight back a wave of laughter.

Apparently, I'm not the only one who's noticed that Abed's sweater appears to be trying to eat his neck.

"You know, Abed, you can leave the top few buttons undone," says Britta gently. "You don't want to show off _too_ much skin, but it looks a bit...well, like a boa constrictor squeezing the air from your neck when you have it all buttoned-up like that."

"Undo the first two buttons," suggests Shirley. "Ooh, that'll be nice!"

"No, don't do that," says the brisk old voice of who can only be Pierce. "That'll look gayer than a three-sided cracker. That'll make him look so gay that Sean Penn will play him in an Oscar-winning movie role. That'll look so gay that Jeff will be jealous of the oozing gayness."

We all turn to watch Pierce as he approaches the table, his hands in his jeans pockets and his eyes defiant and bitter behind his glasses.

"Thank you, Pierce," Jeff says dryly. "I don't feel like my day has properly begun until after a raving old man bursts through the doorway and immediately beings spewing off unbidden, tasteless insults toward my friend, gay people, and myself that actually make _him_ look like the idiot."

"Fine, don't take my advice," Pierce snarls. "But I'll have you know that I was the first person to start the piano-key-necktie trend, and I launched the bangs-haircut epidemic of the early 2000's by chopping my once-bountiful locks into a short style with bangs."

"So we now know who to blame for not one but _two_ horrible trends, _and_ now I'm going to have nightmares of Pierce with a bowl cut," Jeff deadpans.

"Mock me as you will, Jeffrey," Pierce huffs. "But I know that insults are the sincerest form of flattery."

"That makes…absolutely zero sense," says Britta.

"In that case, you'd be the most flattering person alive, Pierce," Shirley mutters under her breath.

"Hey, Annie, I'm glad my shirt fits you," Abed says suddenly, smiling.

Great, now everyone in the room is staring at _me_ instead of at Pierce (or, in Pierce's case, at Jeff).

"You're wearing Abed's shirt?" Jeff asks. There is a heaviness to his question, a slight suspicion hardening his eyes.

"_Awwwwwww!_" Shirley and Britta coo in unison.

"That's so sweet!" says Shirley.

"Are you two going steady now?" asks Pierce.

"Do people even say 'going steady' anymore?" asks Britta.

"Why are you wearing his shirt?" Jeff demands.

"It's not that big of a deal," I say, feeling defensive. "No, Pierce, we are not going steady. And jeez, Jeff, calm down. My purple pen leaked all over my white sweater, so Abed let me borrow his shirt."

"So you just changed into his shirt? Right here, in the study room?" Jeff snaps.

I narrow my eyes at him and perform a mighty scoff. "Of course not; I changed in the bathroom."

"So where is this white sweater in question?" he demands, his tone accusing. "I don't see you carrying it around."

"That's because it's lying on my lap," I hiss. _Doofus,_ I inwardly add toward him. I hold up the evidence for him to see.

Jeff and I have had a…_thing_ blossoming between us for three years now. It's been a lot of back-and-forth, taking turns playing this weird game of cat-and-mouse where I'm never quite sure who's leading and who's following. If he weren't such a coward about what people would think about us dating – since there's sort of an age difference involved – I know it would be _us_ that would be "going steady" by now.

"Looks like somebody's _jeal_-_ous_," Shirley sing-songs, breaking the word into two taunting syllables. She grins as Jeff's expression darkens.

"Who knew she was a secret sadist?" Britta asks rhetorically, lifting her eyebrows at Shirley.

"Who's sad?" Troy asks in way of greeting. He's a welcome distraction, and we all enthusiastically bombard him with our hellos.

"Not _sad_," says Britta. "_Sadist_. It means someone who takes pleasure in other people's pain."

"That would be Pierce," Troy says in a 'duh!' tone. "…Right?"

"Yup; he certainly fits the bill." Abed gives a swift nod. "He's our group's very own Sue Sylvester, only without the wardrobe surplus of tracksuits. Plus, Pierce is actually still relevant to our show and doesn't undergo Aesop amnesia after every time he learns a lesson to be good."

"That's because Pierce has _never_ learned a lesson, _or_ done anything good," Jeff says. I shoot him a reprimanding look at that, but he pointedly ignores me.

"I resent the implication that I can't pull off a tracksuit!" Pierce huffs. "I laid more women with this glorious body than all of Gene Simmons' and the cast of _Jersey Beach_'s conquests combined!"

We all groan at that.

"It's _Jersey SHORE_, Pierce!" Troy corrects, in a tone that suggests he is personally offended by the mistake.

"We are not in a TV show," Shirley reminds Abed, looking concerned for his well-being. Three years as the human embodiment of an encyclopedia on TV shows, and you start to get a little bit worried for what goes on inside of his head.

"I know that," Abed says, before looking off into the distance. He gives a secret, inside-joke type of smile at something only he can see and says with an air of harmless conspiring, "Can't a guy crack some jokes around here without everyone trying to take away his fun?"

"Abed, stop pretending you're Zack Morris, freezing time to playfully converse with the audience," Jeff reprimands. "First of all, your hair is definitely not lustrous enough for that."

Troy whips around, his eyes wide. "There are other people in here? Are there hidden cameras? I didn't have time to properly gel my hair!"

Britta flashes an assuring smile. "You look fine, Troy."

"Abed, you really should unbutton your sweater," Shirley says, not unkindly. "You look like a turtle being vacuum-sucked back into his shell." She gives a terrified gasp at this, as if she has had personal experience with being vacuum-sucked into a shell before. Well, I guess you never know with Shirley's shaded, crazy past.

Oh great. Now Jeff is scrutinizing me again. With those stupid eyes of his. I've never met such versatile eyes before. His are this rich blue color, and they can go from warm and genuine and honest in one moment to cold and calculating and cutting into your deepest insecurities in the next. I bet that probing gaze helped him out a lot as a lawyer.

"That was very chivalrous of Abed to loan you his shirt, Annie. Was his letterman jacket in the wash?" He disguises the heavy sarcasm of his words behind a saccharine smile, exposing his perfect teeth and the handsome lines of his mouth.

I hate it when he smiles. Because no matter if it's an ear-to-ear grin, a beam of joy, a mischievous half-smile, or a devious smirk, my heart always squeezes at the sight. And he does not deserve to have my heart squeeze over him.

I feel irrational fury seethe through my being. I have to remind myself that Jeff is just teasing me. He teases everyone. He's just a big ol' friendly teaser, har-har-har.

"Letterman jacket that symbolizes the old glory days of a high school football star would be Troy, not me, Jeff," Abed corrects. "I'm more of the simple black zip-up hoodie kind of guy: sturdy and dependable. Good for a figurative 'casual night in,' but not good enough for a 'night on the town.'"

"So, Annie," Britta interjects, shooting Jeff a warning look from taking his joke any further, "where are you applying for your job again?"

"As a part-time secretary at the bank down the street," I answer.

"Ooh, adventurous!" Shirley says with a twinkle in her eye.

"Yeah, well, it'll be no Indiana Jones work, but at least I'll get a steady paycheck," I shrug.

"We appreciate your helping with the rent," Troy tells me.

"Yes, we do," says Abed.

"You know, Annie, you could have lived with me," Pierce says. "Offer still stands."

I smile at him gratefully. He really isn't so bad. "Aw, thanks, Pierce. But I enjoy staying with Abed and Troy." It's nice of him to offer, though. Why don't people give Pierce more credit?

"Okay, but you're missing out on some really awesome orgies in my hot tub." Pierce shrugs in an 'it's your loss' sort of way.

Oh yeah. _That's_ why.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** In the immortal words of Annie Edison: _"__Awwwwww, you guuuyyyyssss!"_ XD Seriously, I squee'd so much reading all of the super-sweet and awesome reviews you left me. :D *Hugs* The more feedback I get, the more encouraged I am to update faster. I also appreciate anyone who favorited or subscribed to this story; that really means a lot. Annnd, I really took into consideration the critiques I received (how could I have mistaken Jeff's eyes to be brown? That has been changed to their real color now, LOL). Again, please keep reviewing! I hope you guys love this next chapter. :) Please remember to review!

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><p>CHAPTER TWO<p>

"Your smile is so big, I want to miniaturize myself with a shrink ray and ski across it," Troy says as I walk into our apartment.

_Our_ apartment. Huh. I wonder if I'll ever get used to the simplistic joy of having two of my best friends as roommates.

"As appealing as the idea is, you'll have to wait at least another ten to twelve months for that, Troy," says Abed. He turns to me and adds, in way of explanation, "The Troybed Shrink Ray 3000 is still in the prototype phase. I keep saying we need to use a base core more durable than aluminum, but Troy likes the shininess of it."

"Ooh, _shiiinnnyyy..._" Troy gets this goofy grin on his face. "I can see my reflection in it. And we _need_ the aluminum, Abed, so it can help mold our molecules into compressed versions, remember? Nothing molds better than aluminum! Besides maybe old cheese…Oh!" He gets this 'light bulb flashing above his head' look in his eyes.

Abed nods to appease him before turning back to me. "So, I'm taking it your job interview went well? You look happier than the Doctor with a plate of fish fingers and custard in front of him."

I sit down on the end of the couch, next to Abed, who is now between Troy and me. It's a bit of a tight squeeze, and as I sat down, my miniskirt rode up just an inch or two. So now at least half of my thigh is bare, and it is right up against Abed's leg.

I discreetly try to pull down the hemline a bit; my movement catches Abed's attention. His gaze jumps down to me adjusting my skirt. His eyes widen about a fraction of a centimeter when they meet my thigh; an unnoticeable gesture on anyone but him, who is usually the epitome of composed. He quickly looks away.

My face is suddenly hot as I finally respond with, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I got the job. The interviewer said I reminded her of her out-of-state granddaughter, and she kept looking at me affectionately. She called me Courtney twice – the name of her granddaughter – and asked if I had remembered to feed her cat, so I'm pretty sure she might have Alzheimer's, but yeah, I think it went well."

"Let's just hope she remembers interviewing you," says Troy.

Abed says, "Be careful, Annie; this Courtney character might resemble you so much to her-grandmother-slash-your-job-interviewer because it turns out she is actually your evil Doppelganger who comes to town one day and pretends she is you and tries to steal your life. But she forgets to feed the cat, who is of course pivotal to the storyline. Hilarity and hi-jinks will ensue before the amusement takes a dark and dangerous turn, and then you will have to do something drastic to prove to all of us that you are the real Annie and not Doppelganger-Courtney-Annie."

"Whoa, Abed," I chuckle, "you should turn that into a screenplay or something. I'd love to watch a movie like that."

"Then all you have to do is pick through about 25% of all Lifetime Original Movies," he says. "The majority of them either involve a lookalike causing harmful shenanigans, adultery, murder, or a combination of the three."

"That's why I call them _Knife_time Original Movies," quips Troy. "So, Annie, when will you know if you got the job?"

"She said I should know by this time tomorrow."

"You know what's a great way to pass the time until then?" Troy has a secret smile dancing on his lips.

He and Abed exchange a look before bursting out in unison, "Marathon of _Inspector Spacetime_!" They do their special handshake.

I grin. "I'll go make the popcorn."

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><p>It's Saturday. The day after my job interview. I am pacing the length of our small living room so much that I think I might have run down the carpet into a mere rug.<p>

I am also biting my nails. Attacking the poor, hard crescents, chipping dark pink polish between my bared teeth. I probably look crazy. I _feel_ crazy. With nerves, that is.

You wouldn't think waiting to find out if you are the new secretary at the local bank would be as nerve-racking as a contestant on _American Idol _auditioning. But maybe it's not the job so much as the fact that it's another opportunity to succeed or to fail. Am I worthy, or unworthy?

"You're wearing the carpet to a nub." Troy's voice comes out of nowhere; I jump about a yard high. "You're going to scare away the poor dust bunnies; I was going to teach them how to jump through hoola hoops!"

I whip around to face him. Abed, who stands beside Troy, takes one look at my surely frenzied expression before saying in his know-it-all way that should sound arrogant but doesn't at all, "Worried about getting the job?"

I yank my nails from my mouth and wring my hands together to hide the evidence. "Noooo, not at all. I was just…making sure the carpet was safe enough to walk on. You know, in case the fibers of it were…slippery…and would make us fall and hit the edge of the coffee table with our heads and then die and there would be blood _everywhere_, and the carpet is white, and blood is extremely hard to get out even before it sets, and I know this for a fact because there was this one time when – "

"Annie." I snap my mouth shut. The way Abed says my name is both firm and gentle. His eyes are commanding yet concerned. "You're rambling. It's okay to be nervous about getting a job. We're your friends; you can tell us the truth."

"Okay!" I groan, throwing up my arms and letting them fall down with a loud _smack_ to my thighs. "I'm really, really nervous, you guys! What if I don't get the job? What if I'm not good enough? If I'm not even worthy of working as a secretary, then how am I going to make it in the big time? I could end up as one of those crazy bag ladies who yells at shopping carts and keeps dead sewage rats as pets!"

"Annie, that is _not_ going to happen to you," Troy insists. "You're _way_ too anal to keep a dead sewage rat as a pet. ... _Heheh. _I said 'anal.'"

My cell phone rings; I scream this terrified scream, as if it's a giant snake about to lunge at me.

"What if it's her?" I start pacing again. "What if it's _not_ her? What if she calls to tell me I've got the job? What if she says I'm not competent enough to answer phone calls and give out jelly beans to clients from those cute little glass bowls?"

"Annie…"

"I mean the jelly beans will be in the bowls, of course, not the clients. You know what? I don't even want that stupid job! It's _beneath_ me! Yeah, I said it! Annie Edison is too darn good for any stupid ol' _secretary job!_"

"Annie…"

"I can go on to Broadway! Even though I don't really like acting… But still! I'll do something that'll make me famous, a _star_, and then I'll come back into that stupid bank with a whole entourage of people that are just as douche-y as those people from _Entourage_ themselves, and she'll be all, 'Whoa, we really should have given Annie Edison the secretary job after all!' Yeah, that'll teach them to miss with – "

"ANNIE!"

"_WHAT?_"

"While you were walking back and forth and muttering under your breath with this crazy look in your eyes, Abed answered your phone for you."

I squint at Abed. "You did?"

"Yes. It was Mrs. Jefferson, from the bank. I asked her how she was enjoying the East Side, but she didn't get my reference. Then she told me that you got the job," he informs me. "But should I call her back and tell her that you are too big for secretary-ing, and that you'll see her in a few months after you've acquired your own entourage of actual _Entourage _douchebags with unfairly good hair?"

I jump up and down and squeal with joy, then do my happy dance.

"Guess not," says Abed, and a smile flashes across his face for a moment.

"This calls for some seeee-reeee-_ooousss_ cele-bray-shee-UHN!" Troy cheers, pumping his fists in the air. He whips his cell phone from his pocket and starts punching in numbers.

"Congratulations, Annie," Abed says.

He walks over and gives me a hug. His arms are stiff; he smells good. I hug him back, tightly.

I'm just so happy that I got the job! I _am_ worthy! I'm not going to end up as a crazy bag lady!

For just a second, Abed's arms tighten around me into an embrace that is actually warm rather than awkward. "I'm proud of you, champ," he says, ruffling my hair.

I wonder what movie or TV show he's quoting.

For some reason, I hope he isn't quoting anything.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** As Shirley would say, "Oh, that's _niiiice!_" But that doesn't even cover the half of it. Thank you guys sooooooo freaking much for all of the wonderful support! I love sharing this story with you, because each of you are super awesome. XD The reviews had me squeeing, grinning like a fool, happy to bring people aboard S.S. Abedie, and even laughing at a certain possibly-written-while-inebriated review that was both very sweet and very funny. ;D LOL

This chapter was originally an extension of the previous one, but I decided to make it into its own chapter so the individual Annie/Abed and Annie/Jeff tones of the chapters would not clash. I was going to post this earlier today for New Year's, but I just got around to doing so now. I really hope that you guys enjoy it, and please don't stop with the feedback, even if it's just to give me some constructive criticism. The more I feel that people are actually reading this and enjoying it, the more encouraged I am to update faster. {Insert cute cartoon heart symbol here since this site always omits them for some reason}

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><p>CHAPTER THREE<p>

"A cheers to Annie; may she love her new job!" Jeff exclaims, lifting his drink in the air.

"TO ANNIE!"

I grin from ear to ear as they all toast to _me_. "Awwww, you _guyyysss!_"

After I found out the good news, Troy had sent a mass text to the group, inviting them all to come with him, me, and Abed to our favorite Italian restaurant, Ravioli's.

Now, we are all gathered around a rectangular-shaped table with a red plastic tablecloth: Jeff, me, Abed, then Troy on one side; with Britta across from Troy, then Shirley, and Pierce on the other.

We are digging into our dishes and sipping our beverages. And, of course, celebrating my new job. I really do have the best friends in the world.

"So, Annie, when do you start?"

"Britta, that's an awfully rude question to ask at dinner," scolds Pierce. "A woman's menstrual cycle is a very personal thing, I've heard."

Britta rolls her eyes. "I was obviously asking her when she starts her new _job_, Pierce."

"Well, you worded it quite ambiguously," he says. "Then again, lesbians have never exactly been known for their tact."

Britta looks like she's about to jump across the table and strangle him, so I quickly say, "I start on Monday."

Her stare shifts to me, softening, and she says, "That's great, Annie."

"You're wasting no time in becoming a real working girl," Shirley says. "Our very own Claire Danes, right, Abed?" She giggles at her own joke, but he looks unimpressed.

"No, that's _Shopgirl_; _Working Girl_ stars Sigourney Weaver and Melanie Griffith. But I appreciate your trying to connect with me through my relating everything to movies."

"I feel like you're such an adult now, Annie," Troy says with a bit of a frown. "Peter Pan would be ashamed."

I raise my eyebrows.

"But, of course, _I_ am not ashamed! I am grateful for your helping with the rent and being all boring – er, I mean _responsible_ – and stuff!" he quickly backtracks.

"Gee, thanks, Troy."

"No problem," he beams, oblivious.

I wipe my sauce-dotted hand off on the cloth napkin spread out smooth over my lap; as I begin to pull it back up, Jeff seizes it under the table with his own hand.

I turn to him, a surprised smile dancing on my lips; he is looking down at his plate of angel-haired pasta with basil and shrimp, but a grin pulls at his mouth, twinkles in his eyes.

Considering I am right-handed, it's a bit difficult to wield a fork through lasagna using only my left hand. But I would rather turn into a bit of a clumsy eater than have to forgo my fingers linked through Jeff's.

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><p>After dinner, it's time for us to all go our separate ways. We stayed at the restaurant until closing; we kept adding more drinks and breadsticks-with-marinara and desserts to the bill. There were only a few arguments, which blew over quickly, and all-in-all, it was a terrific time.<p>

I dole out hugs and air-kisses in the parking lot. I'm sad to see everybody pile into their cars and go, but I know I'll see them Monday in the study room.

I ride home with Jeff in his car; it just sort of happens.

Britta had given me, Troy, and Abed a ride to the restaurant since she was in the area when Troy had texted her, so she was giving us a ride back home, as well.

But as I started to walk toward her car, Jeff's hand slipped around my elbow to stop me.

"Your chariot awaits, Milady," he said in a goofy fancy voice, and he flashed his beautiful fancy grin, and how on earth could I do anything but smile back and call out to Britta that I was getting a ride with Jeff?

Now, Jeff holds the front passenger door open for me; he can be the most perfect gentleman when he wants to be. Giggling, I duck my head and climb into the seat. Jeff closes it after me before going around to his side of the car and sliding in behind the wheel.

"Nice car," I say. I've only been in his Lexus a few times before, but my liking for it grows during each ride. "It smells really good."

Jeff flicks the miniature pine tree dangling from his rearview mirror. "It's that, plus I make sure to spray a bit of my cologne in here at least once a week."

I smirk amusedly to myself, thinking that it's cute how Jeff makes sure even his _car_ is as attractive as it can be. "Well, I really like it."

"And I'm glad you do," he says, turning the key in the ignition.

A bit of an awkward silence clouds the air like cheap perfume. Which is ironic, considering.

He pulls out of his parking spot and begins driving. It's quiet as he maneuvers onto the main road. Somewhere outside, a loud dog emits an angry bark.

Jeff clears his throat; my fingers tap out a quick rhythm against my bare knees.

"So, tonight was nice," Jeff says, at the exact same time that I burst out with, "I hope everyone had a nice time."

We both laugh, perhaps a bit too loudly, but the pure and joyful sound of it is the icebreaker that we need. Like a cool breeze finally relieving us from hot humidity.

"You go first," says Jeff.

"No, you go first," I insist.

I hazard a glimpse at Jeff's profile and see that his eyes are shining and his mouth is smiling. He looks relaxed, at ease. "I said, tonight was nice."

I grin. "Yes, it really was, wasn't it? I said I was hoping that everyone enjoyed themselves, but I suppose you just answered me."

"But could you believe that waiter we had? I swear, he is definitely _not_ really Italian; his mustache looked fake and glued on, and what was the deal with his horrific _Italian_ accent?" He hits the word 'Italian' with an extra dose of sarcasm; I cover my mouth with my hands, giggling.

"Oh, come on, Jeff; be nice! His accent wasn't _that_ bad." Except, it totally was.

"Annie! He made Chef Boyardee look like Tony Soprano in comparison!"

I start cracking up, unable to help myself.

Egged on by my guffaws, Jeff's smile widens and he keeps up his commentary.

"Seriously, I think his mustache was a dead squirrel he found on the side of the road, and he whittled it down into a handlebar shape and hot-glued it to his upper lip."

I am now laughing so hard that tears are running down my reddened cheeks; I swipe at them. "Jeff, stop it, _please!_ Oh, I can't _breathe!_ My side hurts!"

But, of course, that only makes Jeff spew off even more jokes at the poor waiter's expense. "It's funny, because it's true!" he exclaims at the end of his spiel. He is much more composed with his laughter than I am; I am in stitches. I haven't laughed this hard since Abed and Troy performed a rap parody for me, complete with washrags-turned-doo-rags and new toilet plungers as microphones.

Jeff stops at a red light and turns to look at me. I have wiped away all the joyful tears, hoping that my mascara didn't smudge as I turn to look back at him.

His eyes soften, the smile freezing on his face; my own smile slips away. The air is charged; static crackles between us. Slowly, so slowly, in contradiction with my zooming heart, Jeff leans in.

I think: _Oh my God, he is going to kiss me!_

Our lips are a centimeter away, our eyes fluttered closed, and just when he's about to go in for the kill – _HONK! HONKHONKHOOOOONK!_

The stupid, impatient driver behind us had to lean on his freaking horn! Way to go, you stupid Romance-Killer McStupidFace!

As the blaring sounds, Jeff and I jerk away from each other; he hits his head on the roof of his car. Hard. And I pitch myself against my door, banging my elbow; pain radiates in the spot, but it doesn't compare a lick to the disappointment raging inside of me.

"The light turned green," Jeff mutters in explanation – maybe to me, maybe to myself; I don't know.

He rubs at his head with one hand and uses the other to grip the wheel so tightly that his knuckles flash white. He hits the gas so hard that I lurch forward, seatbelt swinging me back just before my shoulders collide with the dashboard.

But Jeff doesn't notice; he just continues to drive, hardly on the speed limit, apparently wanting to put as much distance as possible between us and that stupid driver.

And, it seems, also wanting to leave our almost-kiss far, far behind with him.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Seriously, you guys are the best. XD *Huggles* I love every single one of my reviews, and you all are just _way_ too awesome. I hope you will continue to enjoy the story and continue leaving your feedback, because it truly does never fail to brighten my day. :D I know this next chapter doesn't have a whole lot of romance in it, so I'm going to update again with the next chapter either tomorrow or Saturday. I will try to update as often as I can, but I don't want to post _too_ much per week, because then I might run out of pre-written chapters and you guys will have to wait longer for updates.

I am so incredibly bummed by the idea that _Community_ may be cancelled! :'( Seriously, it makes me so upset! I just got into this show this summer, after watching one of the episodes on repeat; I bought the complete first season a few months ago and just got season two for Christmas, and have been watching every episode of season three as it airs, so I am officially in love with and immersed in the world of Greendale. So the idea of it ending, especially so soon after I've gotten to know the characters (please excuse the incredible but honest cheesiness there), is, to quote the ever-sagacious Troy, "the opposite of Batman." Dx I'm glad I have you guys to share this with, even if it is just a one-sided conversation, LOL. :P But I believe whole-heartedly in Abed's battle cry against the networks: "SIX SEASONS AND A MOVIE!" (Though I'd prefer for it to be even more than six seasons.) All right, sorry for all that; now onto the actual story! Haha. :)

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><p>CHAPTER FOUR<p>

On Monday, our study group is hit with the weirdest and most unexpected news _ever_.

I mean, come on, I was already feeling anxious enough since my new job starts right after our study session, but then they have to go and spring this on me? Not that I'm not happy for them or anything, it's just…_weird_.

Allow me to recap for you:

Troy and Britta walked into the room together, holding hands. Now that last part should have tipped me off as to what was to come, but I just shrugged it off as them being close friends.

Well, then they exchanged this secretive look, and Super Smarty Pants Lawyer Man Jeff said, "Oh, God…you guys are sleeping together, aren't you?"

And then Abed said, his eyes widening, "Troy, please tell me you have not soiled the innocence and dignity of our blanket fort with intercourse."

Which made me squeak out, "_Ewwwwww!_"

Which made Jeff scratch his forehead and shoot me with this side-long glance that practically screamed, 'If you are getting squeamish imagining sex, then there's another reason why you're too young for me to be with.'

Which made me want to slap his arm in protest, because seriously, Jeff? _Sooo_ not the time for silently discussing our relationship through facial cues right now!

Pierce actually gasped and said, "Troy, you're really a woman?"

So Britta fixed Pierce with a scathing look and yelled, "I am not a lesbian, Pierce!"

Then Shirley said in her stern mother-bear voice, "You two had better not be having intercourse, because that is fornicating, and the Bible condemns that sort of thing."

Troy mistook the meaning of the word 'fornicating' and said with an understanding smile, "Oh, don't worry, Shirley; we're not hiding any immigrants."

I banged my fist on the table. "Are you guys sleeping together or not?"

Abed ducked his head under his long arms. "Oh, I can't watch."

"No, we are _not_ sleeping together!" Britta snapped at all of us, her blue eyes flashing dangerously. "We've only been dating for a week; sheesh, you guys!"

"You've been dating for _a_ _week?_" Abed and I yelped in unison. Our eyes flicked to each other; his expression of shock probably mirrored how I looked.

"Jinx, you owe me a Coke," he said, pointing his finger at me. His expression was automatically back to one of neutrality again; how does he _do_ that? So fast and without spraining a facial muscle!

"Abed, now is not the time for Jinxing," I scolded. But I immediately felt bad for doing so when he frowned at me and turned back to Troy.

"Troy, how could you not tell me and Abed about this?" I demanded. "We live together! Shouldn't that mean that we're granted the privilege to know certain secrets before the rest of the group?"

"Gee, real nice, Annie," Pierce grumbled. "You sound like my fourth wife. We're all equal friends here, so we _all_ should have known about this before right now."

"I resent the implication that you and Abed are closer to Troy than I am," said Shirley. She played up the hurt in her eyes, the sadness in her voice. Guilt is her favorite weapon. "It makes me feel unwanted." She broke the word 'unwanted' into three precise syllables.

"You guys seriously didn't think this would rile us up?" Jeff asked incredulously, folding his arms over his chest. I tried not to notice the way his taut biceps bulged as he did so.

"Look, you guys, we're sorry," said Troy. And to his credit, he _did_ look genuinely apologetic. "We just didn't want to announce our relationship to everyone until we'd decided if it was serious or not."

"And it _is_ serious." Britta flashed Troy a brief but affectionate smile; he returned it, and in that instant, I knew that all I wanted was for them to be happy.

"Troy, Britta is the mom of our group," Abed said, flicking his fingers from Point A to Point B in that robotic way of his. "This would be like if the Fonz had dated Mrs. Cunningham."

"Okay, Abed, she might be the mom to _you_, but it's never been that way for _me_."

Abed tapped his fingers together. "How to process this, how to process this…" He muttered to himself.

"Well, I for one am happy for you guys," I said with a smile. "Even though I do think it is really weird. But I'm sure we'll all get used to it."

"I don't know about that, Annie," said Pierce. "I'm still in shock that Britta is dating a boy. An _African-American_ boy, to be exact."

"Too much cultural progression for you in one relationship, Pierce?" Shirley asked, tone dripping with saccharine sarcasm.

"Dad, are you upset that Mom is divorcing you?" Abed asked Jeff.

Jeff clenched his fists and spoke slowly to our poor misguided friend. "Abed, Britta and I are _not_ your parents. And we are not dating. So she and Troy" he broke off and addressed them directly "you two can go and get hitched by a cheesy Elvis impersonator in Vegas for all I care. It's your business."

"Thanks, guys," said Britta with a big grin.

"Yeah, we really appreciate all the support," said Troy.

"Annie, are you sure you're okay with this?" Shirley inquired gently. "We all know you used to like Troy."

God, Shirley! Could you make things any _more_ awkward? Why would you mention that right now, in front of _everybody?_

Now six pairs of curious eyes bore into me; a blush spreads beneath my cheeks, cooking my flesh to a glowing red, I'm sure.

Jeff squints at me and arches one eyebrow; Abed leans forward, his mouth sucked in and eyes wide as saucers; Britta shifts from foot to foot.

"Shirley!" I hiss. "Of course I'm okay with this! I am totally over Troy." Which is the truth… Though I can't say that I'm _overruling_ a certain ex-lawyer member of our group from my heart's desire. (Okay, yeah, sorry; that was unnecessarily cheesy.)

I turn to Troy and give him my smoothest smile. "You're one of my closest friends, okay? I love you pla –"

Abed gasps loudly.

" – tonically," I finish. Abed's gasp transitions into a relaxed exhale. I raise my eyebrows at him before turning back to Troy. "So go have some fun with Britta!"

"Thanks, Annie," he grins.

"Yeah, thanks," says Britta, nodding. Her close-lipped smile is grateful, gracing her dark blue eyes with a rare twinkle.

"Seriously, you guys, it's nothing." I wave my hand through the air.

I catch Jeff's gaze and the emotion that darts across his face surprises me.

It's…relief.

Had he been worried that I still like Troy? But I can't get a closer look at Jeff's expression, because he's now looking anywhere _but_ at me.

"All right, now that the horny cat has used its kinkily handcuffed claws to tear itself free from the sex bag, let's resume studying," says Pierce.

We all groan.

"We are _not _having sex!" Britta and Troy snap at him.

"_Yet_," Pierce adds in a tone of such arrogant surety that Shirley throws her pencil at him.

It bounces off his shoulder and hits the ground. His eyes swoop toward the pencil, then toward Shirley. "Careful now, or Britta might mistake that for Troy's tiny penis and start humping it on the ground." His thin mouth quivers upward, begging to release the immature laughter that bubbles within him.

In unison, Jeff, Abed, Shirley, and I drop the pens we were gripping in our hands, letting them clatter onto the table. We all make grossed-out sounds.

"God, Pierce, way to ruin the image of perfectly good writing utensils!" I make sure to put as much acid and frustration into my tone as possible. The man drew a tainted picture in my mind about study equipment; you mess with me and my studying, and you cross a serious line!

"Really? '_Writing utensils?_" Pierce makes a _very_ mature '_pffft_' noise. "And you all think I'm the old geaser here? Don't get your adult diapers in a twist, Annie."

I glare at him and open my mouth to issue a scathing retort when Jeff cuts in with, "While it's certainly fun to sit here and watch you make a royal _ass_ out of yourself, Pierce, I think I speak for all of us when I say we bounce this boogie-town and make a quick dash to the caf to score some tots before they've all been gobbled down the gullet of Pierce's fellow court jesters."

Six pairs of eyebrows raise at Jeff, some pitying and some disbelieving.

"Okay, yeah," he says, standing up and having the decency to appear a bit embarrassed. "That sounded way cooler in my head."

* * *

><p>I walk into Greendale Bank (yeah, I know; <em>super<em> original name. I personally would've chosen something cute, like an intelligent pun: Mint Condition. _Haha!_ Funny, right?) and head over to Mrs. Jefferson's office to check in.

Her door has a golden plaque on it that says, you'll never guess: 'MRS. JEFFERSON'S OFFICE.' I knock a steady 'I'm a good employee' style knock and hear her say in her kind voice, "Oh, come in, dear!"

I enter her office and approach her desk, my hands folded in front of me. "Hi, Mrs. Jefferson." I present her with my sunniest 'can-do' smile. "How are you?"

Mrs. Jefferson pats down her white-as-snow perm and adjusts her chain-link glasses. "I'm swell, Courtney; thanks for asking."

"Uhm… It's _Annie_," I correct her gently.

"Ah, yes, sorry, Hannah." She smiles. "You can go ahead and take your spot behind the receptionist desk in the front. As you're only working part-time, Tabitha will show up to relieve you from your shift for the day in a few hours. You will work Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Any concerns?"

"Uhm, yes," I say hesitantly. _Besides the fact that I can already tell you're never going to remember my name_, I think. "Fridays won't work for me."

She lifts her whiskery white eyebrows and purses her lips. "And why not, my dear?"

Should I be honest and tell her that the reason I can't do Fridays is because I usually have a TV-show-marathon or movie-night with Troy and Abed on those nights? That we usually spend our Fridays ordering in pizza, eating as much popcorn and candy as we can, and staying up late at night relaxing to some fun in the cinema sun?

I decide to go for the ambiguous truth: "Family obligations."

To her credit, she doesn't press the matter. "All right, dearie. It's _your_ pay check." She laughs at this. A laugh that turns into a hacking, wheezing cough. I'm just about to suggest I go get her a glass of water when she composes herself. "How about Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays?" she suggests.

"Sounds perfect!" We shake on it.

I'm fine with any scheduling, just as long as I don't miss out on movie night with my boys. That's non-negotiable.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Hey, guys! I was going to update a lot sooner than this, but I got really sick - but I'm all better now, so yay! :) And _Community_ has officially been confirmed to finish up the rest of the third season, so a humongous WHOO-HOO! for that. XD SixTY seasons and a movie, baybee! Also, I just want to say, once again, thank you all sooooo much for all of the support, whether it be from an incredibly kind review (or just non-flame reviews in general), by subscribing in some form, or even just by reading this - you guys never fail to brighten my day. Remember, feedback is love. :D All righty, I hope you enjoy the next chapter, because, without further ado, here it is...

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><p>CHAPTER FIVE<p>

I've been working for about an hour when I receive a pleasant surprise.

In walks my study group, looking around, sizing up my workplace. I immediately straighten my shoulders back and lift my chin. I make sure a sunny smile is all over my face.

"Oh my gosh! Oh hey, you guys!" I greet enthusiastically, giving them a big wave. I really want them to know that I am responsible and _adult_ enough to maintain a job. Okay, so maybe I really want _Jeff_ to know that I am adult enough. But whatever. That's all semantics.

"Ooh, Annie!" Shirley squeals, hurrying over to me. Her eyes glow with such unbridled pride for me that, for a moment, I fear she will reach across the desk and pinch my cheeks. "Look at you, our little Claire Danes!"

The rest of the group has caught up with her and stands before me. "Wrong movie," Abed reminds her.

"Oh, whatever!" She says impatiently, waving his words aside.

"Hello, Annie," says Jeff, this inside-joke type of smirk carving through his smug face. "Or should I say, 'hello, A. Knee?'"

I heave a sigh. "I know. The guy making the nametags was hard of hearing and very stubborn; I felt bad repeatedly correcting him. It was a losing battle."

Everyone looks at my nametag, which reads: 'A. Knee.'

"As much of a losing battle as the one any client here faces when they try to take a person with a cheap pun for a name seriously?" Jeff quirks an eyebrow at me.

"Of all the body parts you chose to be named after, you go with the boringest one?" Troy asks, his expression suggesting that he's questioning why we're friends. "Well, at least it's flexible. And you can bounce cute little babies on them. So, okay, I guess it's not _so_ bad." He nods, pleased with the outcome after all.

"Does the Greendale Bank want to use your new moniker as bait to lure in Tonya Harding?" asks Jeff, his entire demeanor dripping with faux-innocence.

I roll my eyes. "Ha-ha. _Very_ funny, Jeff. You know what? You should transfer over to Bubba's Clown College…Joke School…and get a PhD in Outdated Pop Culture References."

"Oh, come on." He leans over and slugs me lightly on the shoulder; the affection he puts behind the gesture, combined with his conspiring grin toward me, is enough to make all my Jeff-inflicted irritation melt away. "You know I'm just giving you a hard time."

"I think it's great that you're contributing to society, Annie," says Britta. "It _almost_ makes me think I should get a job myself."

"Yeah, but then your life would be boring," Troy says solemnly. "Uh, no offense," he quickly adds towards me.

I smirk. "None taken."

"You know, Annie, this is kind of like when Jim had to transfer in _The Office_," says Abed. "It's a change, a new environment with a slew of wacky but lovable new characters, but it's not a big enough deal for a complete spin-off. You're still a valued and much-needed member of our show, so rather than make you the titular character of some only-half-as-good follow-up sitcom, you're able to branch out and grow separate subplots that enhance the overall atmosphere of our familial vibe while still characterizing you individually."

He nods as he talks, his tongue flicking over his lips at the end, like a highly-intelligent lizard. "I like it," he decides. "Just so long as you don't go full-blown spin-off on us, and then we have to hire a string of novelty guest stars and shallow cameos to take turns trying to fill your irreplaceable spot."

"_Aww!_" I gush. "Thanks, Abed. That was actually really sweet! But I can assure you there will be no slew of 'wacky but lovable new characters.'" I frame the phrase with perhaps _too_ many finger-quotes, feeling pretty silly with all the finger wiggling. "Considering I work my shifts alone, and my job entails answering the phone and directing people to Mrs. Jefferson's office, I'll say that my job will be more of the solitary kind."

"I just want to say that I'm proud of you for taking a job tarnished by such a nasty reputation," Pierce says. "I'm sure you will be able to rub some elbow-grease into it and sparkle it right up until it shines."

"How is being a receptionist 'nasty?'" Shirley asks.

"He's probably referring to the fact that secretaries are typically females who work for males, and their jobs entail answering phones and fetching coffee and other unglorified tasks that set feminism back a few years," Britta explains in her oh-so-helpful way. "A thankless and insolent occupation if there ever was one."

We all glare at her, save Troy who smiles apologetically on her behalf and says, "That's my baby; she's cute and stuff, but she tends to be unintentionally insulting a lot."

"Jeez, Britta," Jeff cuts her with a pointed look and crosses his sculpted arms over his toned chest. Not that I notice his muscles or anything. "You just stuck your foot so far into your mouth, I wouldn't be surprised if you crapped out a toenail."

"God, I was only trying to help Pierce out with his explanation!" Britta grumps. "Don't shoot the messenger."

"Actually, Britta, your foolish feminist ideals are not why being a secretary has a nasty reputation," says Pierce. "I was obviously referring to the fact that secretaries are whores."

Shirley and I gasp at this, insulted beyond recognition; Jeff's eyebrows shoot skyward; Abed cringes and says "_oooh_" in a wounded way as he turns his head; Troy smacks the palm of his hand against his forehead; and Britta gives us all a look that clearly says, 'See, guys? I'm still not as bad as Pierce!'

"No, no, no!" Pierce holds up his hands, calling off the rabid dogs about to descend on him. He utters a nervous laugh. "Don't take me out of context, would you, people? Look, I just meant that it's basic fact that 99% of secretaries are females who sleep with their bosses, who are 100% of the time male and married. They're like legal prostitutes with lower-maintenance is all I meant." He chuckles good-naturedly, as if he's just effectively smoothed everything over. "Take it as a compliment, Annie; I'm saying that you're one of the 1% who _wouldn't_ turn into a skank. So, you're welcome." He straightens his shirt's collar importantly.

I rub my fingertips against my temples and suck in a deep breath. _Don't explode, Annie,_ I think. _Calm down; in his own weird and twisted way, he was paying you a deluded compliment_.

I force a cheery grin back on my face; I will be adult about this. "Well, Pierce, you don't have to worry about me sleeping with my married male boss, considering he is a _she_, and _she_ is an elderly widow."

"A plot twist!" says Abed, forefinger shooting up as his eye widen. "A true May-December forbidden romance with a Sapphic turn to it."

"I prefer diamonds," says Troy. "Do you want me to get you diamonds or sapphics, Britta?"

She giggles and rubs her nose against his. "I think you mean diamonds or _sapphires_, Troy. And I don't believe in jewelry; it may as well be a prettified leash that you can keep me attached to."

Jeff mimes sticking his tongue down his throat at Britta and Troy's Eskimo kiss, while Shirley smiles and says, "Oh, that's _niiice!"_

"Ew!" I hiss, still stuck on Abed's commentary. "God, Abed, _no!_"

He blinks at me in what I think is supposed to be a rueful manner. "Yeah, I didn't really mean that. It would be way too taboo for our show; I think of us more as a quirky NBC sitcom than as rated-'MA' HBO drama. Besides, you already have your taboo lover in our group."

An awkward silence ensues; Jeff scratches behind his ear and stares at the ground, and I swear my skin is going to burn right off my face from the volcanic heat of the blush searing through me. The rest of the group exchanges uncomfortable glances at this, sneaking stares from me to Jeff and back to me again. Except for Pierce, who, oblivious as always, puffs himself up with this cat-caught-the-canary smirk stretching lazily across his lips, his fingers smoothing down his shirt.

And as if it couldn't get any _more_ awkward, after a beat, Abed clarifies: "I'm talking about Jeff."

Pierce deflates like a leaked balloon, smirk souring into a scowl. Quickly, he huffs, while wagging a finger towards the person who is _actually_ accused, "Yeah! How dare you…_Jeffrey!_"

* * *

><p>The group stayed for about ten more minutes after Abed's awkward comment, but then the business phone started ringing and, after my first official phone call on the job as a paid employee (business is really slow at Greendale Bank, so any work is thrilling work), which evoked a lot of happy squealing out of Shirley afterward and a few light-hearted wisecracks from Jeff (and possibly another TV reference from Abed), I told them all they could leave. I didn't think it was very professional to have all my friends hanging around me on the job; I can only imagine the nightmare that would unfold between the guys if a cute girl were to walk in.<p>

The rest of my shift passed by rather slowly (and, to be honest, boringly). Now I've driven back home and have officially arrived back at the apartment.

I smile at the brass '303' hanging on our door and turn the key in the lock. I am unsurprised to find Troy and Abed perched in front of the TV, watching one of the _Kick-Puncher_ movies for at least the thousandth time.

"_Ohhhh,_ _Luuuucyyyy!_" I call in my best Ricky Ricardo impersonation. "_I'm hooooommmme!_"

"Hey, Annie," Abed says, pausing the movie.

"Waazzzuuup?" Troy lets the 'P'-sound at the end really pop. "How was your first day on the job?"

They both get up and stride over to me. I hook my purse strap on the coat rack and turn to them. "It was great; thanks. I'm pretty beat, though. All that sitting around all day and doing nothing is surprisingly tiring. I don't know how you guys do it all the time and still have so much energy!"

"Yeah, it's 'cause we're awesome," Troy shrugs. "Even laziness can't get us down."

"What's that you're holding behind your back?" Abed asks curiously, trying to peek around my shoulder. Considering he's way taller than I am, he doesn't have to do much work, so I press my free hand against his chest to hold him at bay.

"Uh-uh-_uhh_," I admonish, lifting my hand from him so I can wag my index finger from side-to-side on each syllable. "It's a surprise for you."

"Aww, you got Abed a present, but not me?" Troy whines. "Are you trying to punish me for not telling you guys about me and Britta beforehand? 'Cause I already apologized for that!"

I chuckle. "_Nooo_, Troy; we're cool with it. I just owe this to Abed." I pull out the can of Diet Squirt from behind my back, complete with a shiny red ribbon I tied around it into a perfect (if I do say so myself) bow.

Abed tilts his head and accepts the soda from me. He examines it from top to bottom, turns it around in his hands, tugs at the bow.

"Remember from earlier today in the study room when you Jinxed me and said that I owed you a Coke?" I ask. "Well, I'm always good to follow the rules of Jinxing, but earlier I ignored it and kept talking instead of becoming silent until someone said my name like I should have. But that was under extenuating circumstances. So to make it up to you, I got you your favorite soda instead of just a Coke."

Abed nods, the ghost of a close-lipped smile flickering at his mouth. "Thanks, Annie."

_Stzzz_ - He pops the tab of the can back with that pleasant crackle-snap sound it makes. He takes a sip. Though his face is blank and is tone is bare, he says, "Man, that's amazing."

"You couldn't have brought me back a Lemon Fresca?" Troy grumbles.

"Oh, don't be such a baby." I rumple Troy's close-cut hair; it's soft, like a freshly shorn sheep. "I'll pick up a liter of it when I go to the store next, okay?"

"And you'll get some more Diet Squirt, too?" Abed asks.

I giggle. There's just something so precious about having Abed looking at me with his serious eyes and saying, with no irony at all, the cutesy name 'Diet Squirt.' Shameless, even though most guys his age would be asking for beer or vodka or a more "adult drink."

Suddenly, I think of a small but brilliant plan. "Sure," I say, "I'll bring you more Diet Squirt, too."

Just as I thought he would, Abed says, "Cool."

So I make sure that I say at the exact same time: "Cool."

His eyebrows start inching up, his mouth opening, but it's too late: I've already shot out, "Jinx, you owe me a Coke!"

Abed snaps his fingers as if to say "oh, drat!"

"_Ooh_," Troy winces. "She got you good, dude."

"You know what?" I lean in toward Abed, prodding him in his chest with my forefinger. I allow a triumphant smirk to curve into my lips. "Make that a Beer…of the _Root_ variety."

"Ah – "

I cut Troy off before he can finish that with 'bed.' "No, no." I speak to Troy, but my eyes are still locked on Abed's. I'm enjoying my newfound power. "Let's keep him quiet for a while." Abed's eyes widen in fear.

Just to have fun with him, I start saying things that I know Abed vehemently (well, what can pass as 'vehemently' with Abed) disagrees with, since he has to remain mute: "You know, I always think sequels are better than the first; _Star Wars_ was overrated; _Cougar Town_ might as well be called _Cancelled Town_; _Kick-Puncher Punches Back_ deserved an Oscar."

I watch as Abed's grip tightens on his soda; his mouth hardens into one tight, horizontal line on his face, as if his lips are sewn together. He makes squeaking noises, desperate to speak.

"Oh, for the love of humanity, say his name, Annie!" Troy cries, sinking to the ground and holding his head in his hands.

I treat myself to a hearty laugh before saying, "What do you think…_Abed?_"

His voice sounds dead. "You've broken me." He sets the soda down near the coat rack and then promptly collapses onto the ground beside Troy.

"Aw, I was just kidding with you!" I insist, flopping down between the two boys. "I didn't mean any of that."

"You swear?" Abed asks. He holds out his pinky.

"I swear," I insist, hooking mine through his. We pinky-shake on it, sealing in the promise.

Lying beside him, our heads turned toward each other and our pinkies linked and tiny smiles playing at our lips, I say, "But you still owe me a Root Beer."

Gently, Abed squeezes my pinky. "Deal."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Thank you guys so much for all of the wonderful reviews! Seriously, I know I say this all the time, but you guys are just way too amazing. :D I was going to update this chapter a few days ago, but my internet was out, and it got fixed but I became lazy, so now I'm finally posting it.

To ASV, I really hope you aren't still sick with a high fever, and I hope that whether you are or are not, this update will be like chicken noodle soup for you. XD (Unless you are allergic to poultry, in which case, pick something else! LOL.)

Obviously a happy-dance amongst us all is in order since _Community_ will finish it's third season! To answer a few questions: sweetperfection357 asked: "Do you know when it comes back_?" _It returns in the spring, but it might be switched to a different time or a different day entirely. (I looked but can't find in which magazine I read this, but I know for a fact that I saw this reported somewhere.) :)

Also, I want to share something fun that I read in the_TV Guide_ issue where _Community_ is listed as the winner of the Fan Favorite award. Don't continue reading this sentence and skip the rest of the Author's Note if you don't want to be spoiled on a future plotline: There is an "upcoming epic two-part breakup of Troy and Abed's bromance, which triggers a war that divides the school." GAH! Oh noez! D: I can't wait for it to return. XD

Anywayz, please remember to review. I hope you enjoy this next chapter. It's mainly Annie/Abed, but I promise there will be some major Annie/Jeff in the chapters to come. Or else, what kind of love triangle would this be? ;)

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><p>CHAPTER SIX<p>

The next two weeks fly by.

I can't really say anything super interesting happens; it's the same old, same old at Greendale. I'm sad to report that Jeff and I haven't had any other special moments or almost-kisses or – even better – _actual_ kisses since that night in his car. I tried to bring it up to him last week when we were the last two to exit the study room, but he quickly changed the subject. And I wasn't in the mood to mindlessly persist, so I just sighed and took his cue that we now had yet another near-romantic event to add to the growing list of Pretend It Never Happened.

My job is…fine. Kind of monotonous, but I get a kick out of the simple thrill that I have a real job that I'm getting paid regularly for with an actual boss and everything.

The group takes turns visiting me, usually for only about ten minutes per shift. But I know the novelty will eventually wear off and then they'll stop coming by as often.

Abed, however, visits me every time and always stays the longest out of anyone.

Last Thursday, he came alone, since everyone else had better things to do. He could have been at home watching any number of his favorite TV shows or dressing up as Batman (yeah, he does that more than you'd think; it's kind of his thing), but instead, he showed up with a whole stack of his _Entertainment Weekly_ magazines.

He selected one of the few wing-backed chairs in the room, pulled it up next to my receptionist desk, and just sat there for my whole three-hour shift, reading his magazines, occasionally looking up when I had a free moment (which was a lot due to the slow pacing of my job) and talking to me before turning back to his reading.

I appreciated the company, having a friend there with me. He shared his magazines with me, and we even read one of them together, poring over the spreads and cracking jokes at the celebrities' red carpet fashions.

Now, it's the following Wednesday.

Jeff, Abed, Shirley, and Pierce stopped by for a little while. (Troy and Britta, apparently, had forgone the visit in order to spend an afternoon together at the movies.)

Jeff, Shirley, and Pierce left after a few minutes, their time spent pretending like my job was fascinating already dwindling fast, but Abed stayed behind again.

He lifts up the silver thermos he holds in his hands and graces me with a quick smile. "I brought you Special Drink," he says, passing the cylindrical container to me. It's cold to the touch and smells like chocolate.

"Thanks, Abed!" I trill, grinning. He really is the sweetest friend.

Special Drink is merely hot cocoa mix stirred into cold milk: it's hot chocolate…only cold. Personally, I prefer my cocoa to be steaming and have those mini-marshmallows in it, but Special Drink is tasty if you're in the mood for a particularly strong and chocolate-y chocolate milk.

"I whipped up a whole batch of it," he says. "So when you come home, we can have some more."

"Cool!" I say. "No pun intended," I add, laughing heartily at my own joke. "You get it?"

Abed merely blinks at me, but since I continue to giggle, he offers an obviously fake chuckle for my benefit and says, "Oh. _Ha…HA!_ Yeah, I get it."

I take a long swig from the Special Drink before setting it onto my desk. "So, can I finally watch what _I_ want to watch from the DVR tonight? I had to study last night and missed the new episode of _Glee_."

"Pass," Abed says.

"Aw, come on! That's not fair!" I complain, resisting the urge to stomp my foot. "You made me watch _How I Met Your Mother_."

"But you like _How I Met Your Mother_."

"No, I don't; you know Neil Patrick Harris annoys me."

"Impossible. N-P-H is the perfect example of androgynous sexual appeal paired with universal humor and excellent comedic – wait for it – timing."

"Well, I don't like him," I insist. "He seems full-of-himself and he's not that great of an actor."

"You take that back!" Abed gasps.

"Abed, not everyone is always going to have the same opinions as you," I say. "I'm not going to take that back."

There's a bit of an uncomfortable silence. I'm used to weird silences between the entire study group (and, especially, between me and Jeff), but I'm not used to having any between Abed and me. We rarely ever offend each other, if at all, since we both understand each other so well.

"So, why don't you want to watch _Glee?_" I finally ask him, having to say _something_.

"Because it has no plot-holes or randomly dropped storylines; the characters are not at all annoying or irrational; and the random and unrealistic over-the-top musical numbers are fun to watch over and over again," he says.

I raise my eyebrows and widen my eyes in a, 'see? I told you so!' look. "Yeah, I know; so let's watch it later!"

"Oops," says Abed. "That was supposed to be sarcasm, but I forgot to inflect again."

I sigh. "Fine. Whatever. I'll just watch it by myself."

"'Kay," he says.

We're quiet for a few more seconds until he says, "Sorry; I guess I could watch it with you. It's just, that Principal Figgins character reminds me too much of my dad. It's unnerving."

My brows knit together. "Really? I don't see the resemblance."

"They have the same haircut," he explains.

I shrug, still not seeing it, but I decide to humor him. "Yeah, I guess they sort of look alike."

I smile the teeniest of smiles. "You don't have to watch it with me. We do have two TVs after all; I can watch _Glee_ in the living room while you watch something with Troy in the blanket fort."

"Cool," Abed says. "Cool, cool, cool. But can we still watch at least one show together tonight? I enjoy seeing your visceral reactions; sometimes your different types of gasps and loud laughter are more entertaining than the show itself."

My smile grows into a full-blown beam at that. "Yeah; of course." I reach over my desk and envelope him in a big, tight hug. "Thanks for the Special Drink," I say, resting my head on his shoulder.

He hugs me back, putting his head down on my shoulder too, unaware that only the shorter person is supposed to do that, or else it becomes sort of cramped. But it actually doesn't feel cramped; it's comfortable. Cozy, even.

"You're welcome," he says.

"Sorry about our fight," I say, pulling away from him.

"We weren't fighting," he says. "We were undergoing a debate about TV; that's one of the best types of conversations."

"Yeah; you're right."

"Are you going to finish your Special Drink?"

"Yes, but we can share it."

"Can we sit on top of your desk while we drink it, like in _Sixteen Candles_?" He points up a finger.

I laugh. "No!"

"Okay." His finger wilts back down.

He checks his wrist, even though he isn't wearing a watch. "I should get going. It was nice seeing you, Annie."

"'Bye, Abed. Thanks for the drink!"

"Anytime, doll face," he says in his best Don Draper voice, throwing out a wink before turning on his heel and walking away.

I smile to myself as I watch him go. I hear him humming that Muzak tune he and Troy love so much, the notes floating over his shoulder and trailing back to me as he exits the building.

I smooth out my dark pink mini-skirt and sit down before taking another sip from the thermos.

Great…now that song's stuck in my head.

* * *

><p>It's Friday, two days after Abed brought me Special Drink.<p>

Per request, I'm making his favorite dish for dinner: macaroni and cheese. Shirley suggested I try making it with pepper jack rather than the standard cheddar; I hope Abed will find this alteration just as delicious.

As I stir the mac and cheese around in the steaming pot, Troy walks into the kitchen, holding up two ties. One is dark green and the other is an ungodly neon gold color.

"Which one should I wear tonight on my date with Britta?" he asks. "I want to look nice for her."

I smile. "Aw, Troy; that's so sweet!" I eye his outfit, a dark blue button-up shirt paired with his cleanest pair of jeans. "But, to be honest, neither one really goes with your outfit."

"Yeah, but these are clip-ons, and the other ones I have, have to actually be tied on."

"I can tie it for you; I used to help my dad with his all the time."

"Really?" Troy asks, his tone caught between surprise and relief.

"Sure. Do you have one in black? Black is formal, and it goes with everything. Or, you know what? Abed is actually really good with color-coordinating, so you should ask him." I turn the heat setting up on the pot, enjoying the savory smell drifting up from the food.

"He's in the Dreamatorium right now," Troy says. "You can't interrupt someone when they're in there, Annie; that could cause all sorts of terrible problems."

"Well, do you have a black tie?"

"Yeah."

"Then go get it and I'll tie it for you."

"Cool; thanks!"

He scurries off and is back in a few minutes with a simple black tie. He passes it to me; I'm surprised at the genuine silk fabric, almost slipping through my fingers. I tie it around Troy's neck, adjust it to the right length, and step back to survey my handiwork.

"Aw, you look so handsome!" I clap my hands together. "When Britta picks you up, I have to get a picture of you two kids all dolled up."

"You're making me flashback to unpleasant prom memories," Troy complains. "When we had to take about a thousand-million pictures…so…many…pictures…." His eye twitches.

"Macaroni smells great, Annie." Abed comes from out of nowhere, suddenly standing next to Troy and me.

"_AHHH!_ Abed, you scared me!" My hand flies over my pounding heart.

"Stealthy, dude! Were you practicing night-prowler techniques in the Dreamatorium?" Troy asks eagerly.

"Troy, you know better than anyone that an individual's experience in the Dreamatorium cannot be shared with anyone else, or the whole foundation could explode," Abed says wisely. "But we can go in there together next time. You should join us, too, Annie; we could use a female to balance out the testosterone."

"Thanks; that sounds like fun," I say. "But right now, my main priority is making sure this mac and cheese turns out perfectly."

Abed steals the wooden spoon I'm using away from me and samples from the pot. He smacks his lips together a few times after tasting, eyes thoughtfully turned to the ceiling, before he says, "Pepper jack?"

"It was Shirley's idea," I say quickly.

He nods. "I love it."

"Yay!" I grin from ear-to-ear.

"Too bad I'll have to miss out on it tonight," says Troy.

"Why?" Abed asks.

"Because I'm going on a date with Britta."

"But tonight's movie night," Abed says.

"For you guys it is, but for me, tonight's Go to Dinner and then Make-Out with Britta Night," Troy says.

"Too much information, Troy," I say.

"But, Troy…tonight's _movie night_," Abed repeats.

"Sorry, dude, but I can't spend every Friday night here anymore," says Troy apologetically. "That was what Single Troy would do, but now Boyfriend Troy has to go and do…boyfriend things."

"It's okay, Abed," I say, hoping he won't become quiet and reserved like he sometimes does when a sacred tradition has been abruptly yanked out from under him. His fantastical claymation breakdown from last Christmas because his mom abandoned him comes to mind. "You and I will have a lot of fun together. And that just means there's more mac and cheese for us."

Surprisingly, Abed adapts to this change of plans a lot faster than I'd expected. Half of his mouth curls up in a lazy grin, and he says, "Cool."

There's a knock at the door. "I bet that's her right now!" Troy exclaims. "Coming, my sweet pumpkin love cake," he trills, running to answer the door.

I shake my head at him, torn between a giggle and a groan.

Abed hands me back the wooden spoon, and I resume stirring the almost-finished dish.

"Looks like we'll be spending a lot of time together, just you and me, now that Troy will be spending most of his time with Britta," Abed observes.

I smile at this. "You're right; I just hope you don't get tired of me."

"Nah," Abed flicks a dismissive hand through the air. "You're the human equivalent of Diet Squirt or the first three of seasons of _Lost_; it's impossible to get tired of you, and each additional sip or viewing only enhances the quality."

"I think that's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me," I say softly, looking into his deep brown eyes, warm and sincere. Something unfurls in my chest, almost like a flutter of my heart.

Abed's expression is indecipherable, somehow both so meaningful and so blank all at once. Finally, he cocks his head and flicks a rigid finger to the pot. "The macaroni's burning."

Quickly, I turn off the heat and transfer the pot to an area of the stovetop that isn't on.

I am flustered, my fingers a bit clumsy, but it has nothing to do with almost burning the food.


	7. Chapter 7

Hey, guys! I am sooooo sorry for how long it has taken me to update. :( I got really busy with ideas for other stories, which meant that some of my older fanfics fell by the wayside for a bit, and this was unfortunately one of them. But you can all thank MC-Aitlyn for reaching out and asking me if I was on hiatus, which gave me the kick in the rear-end I needed to finally update this. I was planning on sending it in on Valentine's Day, but that obviously didn't happen, so here's a late Valentine's present to you guys: *hands virtual box of assorted chocolates and thermos of Special Drink* (If you're allergic to chocolate, then feel free to exchange those for a different treat.) ;)

I really hope you all continue to enjoy this story and still have interest in it. I will try to make sure not to go so long without updating again. Please let me know what you think; reviews are love, and it never fails to make my day when I read your feedback. :D

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><p>CHAPTER SEVEN<p>

"_So it's sorta social. Demented and _sad_, but social, right?"_

Discreetly, I watch as Abed mouths the words along to the movie. It's one of his and my all-time favorites: _The Breakfast Club_.

His eyes are glued to the screen, captivated, as his hand occasionally works to deposit popcorn into his mouth between lines. He reminds me of a pelican, and the thought makes the smallest of smiles pull at my lips.

Onscreen, Brian babbles nervously to Bender, who is more interested in exchanging meaningful looks with Claire. I wonder what it would be like to have been like Claire in high school; popular and pretty and coveted by every guy, from the nerd to the jock to the bad boy. It's weird to think that in my high school scenario, Troy was the jock I pined after – he was my golden boy, my inwardly proclaimed "soul mate."

Boy, have things changed.

Now Troy is one of my best friends. I love him like a brother. My current romantic interest is nothing like any of the high school stereotypes, and is actually so much older than me, he could have already graduated from college by the time I was just entering high school.

I am pulled from my thoughts when Abed laughs this full-on, out-loud guffaw; Bender has cracked wise again, in typical Bender fashion. My smile spreads across my face; I giggle more at Abed's reaction than at the joke itself.

Abed has the best laugh in the world; seriously, it's just so cute! His entire face lights up, and his head jerks back, and the sound is pure and loud and boyish, echoing from the very base of his being. It's a shame he doesn't actually utilize it very often.

I take a sip of the Root Beer he surprised me with today, the debt from when I Jinxed him a few weeks ago. I place the dark amber bottle back on its coaster, next to the empty bowl of what was pepper jack mac & cheese.

Abed and I went through the entire pot, eating nothing but macaroni for dinner (even though I tried to convince him we should have some fruits or vegetables on the side to make the meal more nutritious, he was adamant about how healthy foods make watching a movie less enjoyable). He's now working through the popcorn, but I'm too full to share it with him.

My back pocket starts vibrating; I pull out my phone. 'Jeff' flashes on the screen, complete with a hilariously too-close-up Contact ID picture of him, making a goofy face. His eyes wide and his nostrils flared and his mouth twisted open into a shape all its own; a rare Silly Jeff moment, one that I am pleased was captured for all of eternity.

I hit the 'OK' button and hold the phone up to my ear. "Hello?" I whisper, trying to sound casual, but on the inside, there is a miniature version of me freaking out. Jeff called me! Out of the blue! A random Friday night phone call! _GAH!_

"Annie Edison," Jeff's smooth voice, saying _my_ name, trails from my phone and into my ear, through my veins and straight into my pounding heart to kick its speed up a notch. "What are you doing on this lovely night? You had better be at a club or spending the night on the town, like any self-respecting twenty-year-old should at the beginning of the weekend."

"No," I say, the word peppered by an amused snort and a roll of my eyes. He just described the exact _opposite_ of what I like to do, and he knows it. "I'm hanging at home with Abed."

Even though I am speaking very quietly so as not to disturb Abed watching the movie, he still turns to me at the sound of his name. He pauses the film, cocks his head at me in his curious manner.

"Why are you whispering?" Jeff drops his voice to an over-exaggeration of my low volume.

"Who are you talking to?" Abed asks.

"Jeff," I mouth to Abed, who nods and turns back to the TV screen, paused on Emilio Estevez looking over his shoulder. He doesn't play the movie, but instead starts tapping his foot, already impatient with me on the phone.

"Annie?" Jeff prompts, back to his usual volume again.

"Oh, sorry," I say, also no longer whispering. "Abed and I are watching a movie, and I didn't want to be rude and talk during it."

"Annie!" Jeff says my name again, this time a teasing scold, and all I want is for him to say my name a thousand times in a thousand different ways, each in his melodic voice. "You are a disgrace to all twenty-year-olds everywhere! An abomination to your own peer group!"

"I'd rather watch a movie with Abed and act stupid reenacting scenes with him later than go to a club and act stupid because I've illegally consumed alcoholic beverages," I insist. Abed's foot stops tapping at this, and he smiles to himself at what I've just said.

"'_Consumed_ alcoholic _beverages_?'" Jeff repeats, hitting certain words with an incredulous pitch. "With your fancy vocabulary, you're demonstrating my point that you need to get out of that stuffy old apartment and go have some fun."

"I can't just bail on movie night," I say with ample amounts of implied '_duh_.' "It's a sacred tradition that cannot be messed with." I catch Abed's eye and he flashes me an approving thumbs-up.

"Are you dressed?" Jeff asks.

"Yeeee-eeeessss…."

"Are you watching a movie that you've already seen before, and that you know Abed wouldn't mind continuing alone?"

"Um, yeah…."

"Then meet me outside of your place. I'll be there in no more than ten minutes." _Beep_ – the line disconnects. Jeff has hung up, leaving me only with his words and a giant smile sliding across my face.

But when I turn to Abed, watching me, studying my movements with an eye that is both so interested and so careless, guilt starts curling into my stomach. "Um, Abed, would you totally hate me if I cut out early and went out with Jeff tonight?"

"Not totally," he says. "Maybe a little." My mouth digs into a disappointed frown, until Abed adds, "That was a joke. Deadpan humor. Sorry, I know I come off too serious sometimes."

My lips instantly transform back into a smile. "Oh! So you wouldn't mind? I don't want you to feel like I'm ditching you, but Jeff didn't really leave me any choice, and I've seen this movie, like, a _thousand_ times, and I promise we can still reenact some scenes later like I said we would, but I know that Troy isn't here and I don't want you to feel abandoned – "

"If I were giving away a prize for the fastest, longest run-on sentence, it would go to you," Abed mercifully interrupts me. "Considering you made some delicious macaroni tonight, I won't hold it against you if you want to go have some real fun."

"Oh, but this _is_ 'real fun' to me!" I insist, scooting closer to him on the couch. My hands slip into his; my elbow nearly knocks the popcorn bowl from his lap. I look right into his eyes, give him my most reassuring smile. I never want Abed to doubt our friendship by thinking I don't genuinely enjoy spending time with him.

"Seriously, Abed, I love hanging out with you," I tell him. And it's the truth. And I hope he knows it.

Abed moistens his lips, nods a single, solid nod. "All right. Thanks, Annie. I love hanging out with you too, and I hope you won't be out too late. I just bought a new, short red Molly-Ringwald-esque wig today that will be perfect for the dramatic 'reveal while we're in detention' scene."

"And do you still have your complete John Bender outfit?" I ask him. I'm aware our hands are still overlapping, cupped within each other's warm grasp, but I don't let go. "With the black gloves and everything?"

"Yep."

"Okay, great!" From my enthusiasm, I reflexively squeeze against his hands. He smiles this soft, close-lipped smile, a whisper of a grin, and flashes a brief squeeze back. "Again, I'm sorry that our plans fell through."

I'm looking into his eyes, so close that I can see my reflection grinning in his pupils, and his hands are just so…_comfortable_ against mine. And…I don't know…as much as I'm beside myself with excitement at a night ahead of me of hanging out with Jeff, there's this part of me that doesn't want to leave my spot right here on the couch, perched next to my friend, the buttery smell of popcorn in the air and a beloved movie in the DVD player.

"Don't worry about it," Abed says, and then he clicks into his perfect impersonation mode, "'Screws fall out all the time; the world's an imperfect place.'"

I press my lips to conceal a monstrous grin, but, try as I might, I cannot contain my giggle. "You're totally going to show me up later in the reenactment; you're a lot better at impersonations than I am."

"Well, I could never pull off being a Disney princess, but you always manage it when you're holding back tears," Abed points out. "Your comparisons there can't be ignored."

I flip my hair back using my neck, lower my eyelids, and curl up one corner of my mouth. "'Sweets," I purr, deepening my voice, "'you couldn't ignore me if you tried.'"

Abed's eyebrows rocket to his hairline. "Yeeaaahhh. Stick to the Little Mermaid and leave the rebellious teen criminal with a secret heart of gold to me." He lets go of one of my hands just so he can pat the back of it.

"Come on! I wasn't _that_ bad!" I insist with great indignity.

"You're right," Abed agrees. "You weren't '_that_ bad;' you were terrible."

I bark a laugh, the sound half-offended and half-amused, and Abed chuckles appreciatively in return.

The loud and incessant honking of a horn pierces the air.

"That'll be Jeff," I say, standing up and dropping my hold of Abed's hand. "I'll see you later, okay? Have fun watching the movie without me."

I walk over to the coat rack and shrug on my winter coat, slip my hands into the pair of pink mittens Shirley knitted me for Christmas; they're warm but kind of itchy, and I find myself missing the feeling of Abed's hands against mine: not-too-warm-but-warm-enough, dry and assuring.

"Cool," Abed says. "Cool, cool, cool, cool, coooollll." He licks his lips, bobs his head up and down like one of those desk dolls.

If I weren't so happy about going out with _Jeff_ of all people, I wouldn't leave him like this. I don't want him to feel neglected: first Troy bailing on Movie or TV Show Marathon Night for his date with Britta; and now me, gallivanting off for somebody else, my own date.

But Abed is a big boy. He's mature enough to handle this sort of thing, and any loneliness will quickly be batted away when he plays the movie and is immersed into his own world, a world where things make sense and good always wins and the answer to all of life's problems is Love.

My phone vibrates once; I have a text. It's from Jeff and reads: _Your chariot has been awaiting you for five minutes now, Milady. The night is still young with hardly a wrinkle, so hurry on out before it grows old enough to need Botox._ I shake my head and smile at his humor; a resurgence of exuberance for tonight flares within me.

"See ya, Abed," I say as I hook my purse over my shoulder and open the door.

"See ya, Annie," he says. I hear him shifting around into a comfier position on the couch, then he plays the movie and there's the sound of Emilio-Estevez-as-Andrew insisting, _"No, I don't wear tights…."_

The door _click_s shut behind me, I twist the key to lock it, and then I am bounding off down the hallway, a definite skip to my step as the image of Jeff sitting in his Lexus – waiting for _me_, of all people – pops into my mind.

* * *

><p>"Please don't tell me you were watching <em>Inspector Spacetime: Time is Always in Season<em>, that horrible movie with the really bad acting and really bad title pun about spices," Jeff says in way of a greeting as I open the front passenger door and slide into the seat.

I shut the door, snap my seatbelt across me before answering. "Thankfully, no." I can't help but laugh; as much as I actually enjoy watching _Inspector Spacetime_ the TV show with Abed and Troy, the movie adaptations are always somehow just completely terrible. "And thyme is an herb, not a spice."

Jeff starts the car and the engine purrs awake. "Then what were you watching? If not _Inspector Spacetime,_ then it has to be any of the following: one of the innumerable _Star Wars_, _Cougar Town_, or a John Hughes film."

"John Hughes," I say as Jeff backs up from his parking space and then drives away from the apartment and onto a main road. I check the side-mirror, watch as the apartment fades farther and farther away, leaving behind Abed and his giant bowl of popcorn and a ragtag group of lovable misfits.

"_Pretty in Pink_?" Jeff guesses.

"_The Breakfast Club_."

"Even better," he says sincerely. "Geez, Abed must have seen that movie at least fifty times already."

"Yeah," I say, an affectionate smile appearing on my face. "He knows every line."

"Impressive," Jeff says, nodding. "All right, enough about our cinema-loving friend. Tonight, Miss Edison, the night is all about you and me, stretched out before us, the entire world for our taking. So, I must ask you the most crucial of questions: what shall we do in order to ensure that tonight holds the adventure of a lifetime?"

"We-ell," I say, "you can never go wrong with ice cream."

"You're right," Jeff agrees, "ice cream is the Bill Cosby of foods; completely safe, non-offensive, and easily accessible to everyone."

"So, not exactly the type of adventure-seeking delicacy you had in mind, huh?" I ask.

"Now, Annie," Jeff mock-scolds, "a man would have to be certifiably insane to pass up any opportunity to have ice cream."

"Or diabetic," I point out.

"Yes, Debbie Downer, or diabetic," Jeff snorts. "But I was thinking we could be more optimistic tonight and less pessimistic. If I remember correctly, 'cynicism' isn't an ingredient found in a healthy batch of 'the time of our lives.'"

"Sorry," I say, chuckling. "You're right; but you know what, 'sarcasm' isn't one of the ingredients either."

"Yes, but considering Jeff Winger is made up of at least 63% sarcasm, I'd have to say that, that particular flavor is unavoidable," he banters. "And as delicious as the man it comes with."

"If you talk about yourself in third person again, or call yourself 'delicious' with not even a hint of joking one more time, I will open the door and jump out of the car," I tease, wagging my finger for good measure.

Jeff smirks. "Got it. But if you ever actually non-ironically wag your finger at me, then I'll _push_ you out of the car."

I roll my eyes, give his arm the lightest push. "_Je-eff!_"

"_An-nie!_" He matches my tone well enough that I gently shove him again.

He catches a quick glance of my indignant expression before turning his eyes back to the road; an easy chuckle escapes his lips, and I find myself giggling with him.

We reach the ice cream parlor a few minutes later; Jeff parks right in front, gets out of the car, then dashes over to my side to open my door before I have a chance to.

"Milady?" He offers his arm.

"My lord." I take it with a grin.

"You know," I say as we fall into step toward the entrance of the building, "if that had been Britta you'd opened the door for, she would have thrown a fit about how women are just as capable of opening their own doors as men, and how it should have been her who had actually opened the door for you."

"Well," says Jeff, opening yet another door for me so we can enter the ice cream parlor, "let's be glad she's not here then."

He waits until I look at him, until our eyes are locked and a smile hovers at my lips. "I wouldn't want it to be anyone but you," he adds, his tone and expression rife with meaning.

With his words, my craving for sugar ebbs away; there's no way any kind of ice cream will ever be as sweet as this moment swirling between us, accelerating my heart and making me sure that I will never stop smiling.


	8. Chapter 8

Heeeellllloooooo, eeeevvvvvv'rrrryyyybaaahhhddddyyyyy! (I don't know why I felt like rumbling that out like the announcer at a wrestling match.) Thank you all soooooo much for the continued support. :) I can't say this enough, but it all means so much to me and never fails to make my day. So, this next chapter is preeeettttyyyy long, but quite a lot happens in it, so I hope it will hold your attention from start to finish. I'm always excited to hear what you think, so be sure to leave a review! XD I take all of the suggestions and critiques into consideration, even though most of this story is already written out, so I may not be able to squeeze in a plot idea. But still, I do appreciate them all.

And without further ado from your thankful, rambling author, I present the newest chapter! *Spanks rump of trusty steed* And onward we go. :D

* * *

><p>CHAPTER EIGHT<p>

"I still can't believe you ordered fat-free, sugar-free frozen yogurt!" I scoff, shaking my head back and forth. "Seriously, Jeff, that's not even worthy of being considered real ice cream!"

We take seats opposite each other at a vintage red vinyl booth. "Hey," he says defensively. "Do you think a body this toned and beautiful is naturally given? No; it takes dedication to carefully planned meals and a rigorous daily work-out to achieve this masterpiece." He sweeps his hand over his body, and I try not to blush as I imagine a shirtless Jeff, manly perspiration beaded over his tanned skin, performing a pull-up on a bar in his home gym.

And now I'm trying _really_ hard not to blush as I imagine him wearing nothing but his notorious (and glorious) pair of blue-and-green striped underwear that show off the perfect toning of his butt and the length of his long legs… Oh, God! _Stop it, you pervert! _I admonish myself. _An innocent ice cream date is not an appropriate time for a _Scrubs-_worthy elaborate daydream sequence!_

"Well," I say after oh-so-casually clearing my throat and thanking the heat in my cheeks for melting away, "I have to admit that I'm disappointed in you, Jeffrey. You promised a night worthy of being called 'the time of our lives,' and yet you buy the healthiest type of dessert at an _ice cream parlor_." I gesture down to my glorious banana split, three scoops of ice cream (vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry) with two long frozen bananas, whipped cream, nuts, and a maraschino cherry atop each perfect mound of ice cream. "_This_ is what living life is all about."

"A sugar-coma in a bowl?" Jeff quips. "A one-way ticket to Thunder Thighs City?"

"Gee, thanks," I frown, taking a cue from Shirley and playing up the guilt factor. "Not only are you insulting the very point of tonight's _carpe diem_ attitude, but you're also insinuating that I'm going to get fat after eating this." I do my best to pretend like I'm offended; I consider going in for the kill, skipping the Puppy Dog Pout altogether and heading straight into Disney Princess Face.

But Jeff has already fallen for it. "You're right," he says, standing up with his cone of boring and promptly tossing it into the trash can between our booth and the one next to us. "I'm going to order something so fattening and atrociously delicious, Bob Harper will cry with shame!"

"That's the spirit!" I cheer, dropping my offended demeanor at once.

Nodding in determination, Jeff marches over to place his order; he returns with a large hot fudge sundae with the works. He slides back into his seat, lifts his white plastic spoon with a rigid fist, and then…just stares down at the dessert, frozen.

I wait a few seconds, watching him, before saying, "If you want to eat, it usually helps if you put the food on the spoon. You know, just a suggestion."

He nibbles on his lower lip, spoon still frozen midway between himself and his sundae. "Do you know how many calories are in this?" he asks rhetorically, eyes probing mine, trying to make me see reason. "I would be throwing away a full_ week's_ worth of treadmill action just by eating half of it."

"Think of it as one small step backward for your over-the-top training regime, and one giant leap forward for your very grateful taste buds," I suggest.

Jeff twists his lower lip sideways with his top row of teeth, a diagonal mark of uncertainty slashed across his handsome face. "I…it...it's mocking me, Annie! It's laughing at me with its caramel and chocolate and those hot pieces of brownie! Why do you hate me so much?" He demands of his dessert, slouching eye-level with it. "_Why?_"

I can't tell if he's joking or not, since Crazy Jeff can come out when his perfect physique is being threatened, but I'm too busy being distracted by his adorable pronunciation of 'caramel' to give it much thought. (He says 'care-a-mel' instead of 'car-mel.' How cute is that?)

"Jeff," I say gently, "it's just a hot fudge sundae. I promise you're still going to look just as gorgeous after eating it, and your flawless body will not be irreparably damaged." I blush at my effusive compliments toward him, at the way he looks up at me and this strange expression calms his face and softens his eyes.

A brisk nod graces his neck. "You're right. Really. I need to learn how to live a little." He takes a hearty scoop of the ice cream; as soon as it's met his mouth, whipped cream and vanilla and hot chocolate drizzle and finely chopped nuts, his eyes roll skyward and his shoulders tense in the way only a foodgasm can.

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows; he opens his mouth to comment, but instead chooses to stuff it with more ice cream. I watch him dig in, hardly able to remember the social etiquette of eating slowly and with restraint, and I find myself grinning like a fool at him.

"See what happens when you finally stop fighting it?" I ask. "See how wonderful it is when you give into temptation of the thing you really want, of something that you _think_ is bad for you, but really it's the best thing you've ever tasted?"

I didn't mean to, but as soon as the words leave me, I realize that perhaps I am not just talking about ice cream. Perhaps I am talking about a matter far more significant than the calorie content of frozen sugar confections.

Jeff seems to realize this, too; his lawyer-trained brain knows the meaning of metaphors and double entendres. He slows his pace of eating and looks at me; something passes between us, something almost tangible but undefined, something that charges the air and makes us both still as statues.

Then, like a breeze – no, something more visible but equally unattainable, like a puff of smoke swirling away – the moment disappears and Jeff resumes eating his hot fudge sundae and I go back to working on my banana split.

We finish our ice creams with easy conversation, marked but his witty penchant for bantering and my giggles at his antics. We end up swapping our desserts about halfway through, wanting to switch things up a bit, and the simple action feels intimate to me in such a wonderful way, like something real couples would do.

I enjoy the decadence of his treat and he enjoys the flavor of mine, but as I watch him spoon a bite into his parted lips, I think to myself that all I really want a taste of right now is his kiss.

* * *

><p>After we finish as much of the dessert as we can without bursting, we head out of the ice cream parlor and into his Lexus. The night is 10:30, still relatively young (though I'm not planning to stay out past midnight, since I'm not going to break my promise to Abed of reenacting the movie scene with him when I get back), and I wonder what adventures the universe has in store for us next.<p>

"Where to now, Milady?" Jeff inquires.

I will never get tired of him calling me that. I could legally change my name to 'Milady' and have him say it to me every time he sees me or needs to ask me a question or introduce me to somebody else, and I will always feel a warm thrill at him calling me his 'Milady.'

"Surprise me," I say. "I picked the ice cream, so now it's your turn."

His fingers twirl the key in the ignition, pausing there as he considers our next option. A few moments pass until he breaks into a charming lopsided grin and turns to me. "I know the perfect place."

His hands transfer to the steering wheel, and then we are on our way out of the parking lot and toward our next great destination.

* * *

><p>"<em>Wow<em>."

The word is an awed breath escaping my rounded lips, an exclamation point marking the width of my eyes.

Jeff's "perfect place" is the Greendale Park, a beautiful and serene place still filled with thousands of twinkling gold-and-silver wintertime lights and glowing paper lanterns dancing from tree branches. You would think since Christmas was last month, the ambiance of the park would have been taken down, but since it's more general winter spirit and less holiday celebration, Greendale leaves its park decorated until the end of January.

The night is cold but thankfully not windy, and we're bundled up enough to feel warm anyway. I wonder if we'll get snow soon, since it almost always snows profusely in Colorado winter, but this year has been unseasonably warm.

I'm thinking_ thank God I wore tights under my skirt today to help ward off the chill_ when Jeff once again comes around to my side of the car and opens the door for me.

I expect him to hold out his arm, but he does something even better: he offers me his hand, and I accept, my pink-mittened-fingers sliding between the gaps of his bare ones.

"It's _beautiful_," I say, looking around in wonder. "I hadn't gotten a chance to see it this year, and I'm glad you decided to take me here."

"Yeah, it's really something all right," he agrees, sounding just as impressed as I feel. "It's hard to believe that Greendale Community College is such a dump when there's a place as fancy as this not more than five miles away."

I nod in agreement.

We walk around the giant park for a few minutes in a companionable silence. The whole time I keep thinking: _Jeff is holding my hand; _Jeff_ is holding _my _HAND!_ And even though it does feel kind of weird to hold hands while wearing mittens, and his is so big that it swallows mine up, I feel comforted and protected.

I decide to say something. "This is really nice, Jeff. I can't remember the last time we spent so much time together, just the two of us."

"Yeah, we need to do this more often," he agrees. "Two good friends, hanging out, enjoying each other's relatively sane company."

I try not to frown at his calling us 'friends.' The word feels so plain and dull, so not special or what I _really _want for us.

"Yeah," I mutter, "_friends_."

We come across a bench and Jeff suggests we sit down for a while. I agree and we perch upon the bench, so close that the sides of us touch, thigh-to-thigh and hip-to-hip and side-to-side and shoulder-to-a-bit-below-his-taller-shoulder. My heart immediately picks up speed at his nearness, at the scent of his expensive cologne and fancy hair products.

"So," Jeff says, and even with just one word, I know I'm not going to like where he's taking this, "Britta and Troy. That's really weird, right?" The question is posed too casually, and the implication is more statement than inquiry, more of him prompting me to agree than him genuinely seeking my opinion.

"I don't think so," I say carefully, knowing this is headed down a precarious road. "I think they're cute together. And they've been friends for so long before dating that their levels of respect for each other are already high."

"Yeah, but…" Jeff hedges. "If they break up, their friendship could become awkward or even ruined. They might divide the group in half, whether wittingly or not. And, you know…she's a lot older than him."

And there it is. The dreaded _bingo!_ of it all. I hadn't seen his point until he said that last part. Jeff doesn't really think the core of their friendship is in danger, since Troy and Britta care about each other so much that there's no way they could ever not be at least _friends_.

Nope, Jeff's real purpose for bringing up this topic is all with those six words: 'she's a lot older than him.' He said it's weird that 'she's a lot older than him.'

Meaning it's weird that _Jeff_ is a lot older than _me_.

I have to tilt my head back to look at him; my glare shoots upward, squinted eyes and flared nostrils. He angles his chin down, allowing his unreadable blue eyes to meet the disbelieving anger surely hardening mine.

"This isn't about Troy and Britta," I say bitterly. It's not a question or a statement; it's an accusation. "This is a poorly-veiled discussion about _our_ relationship." I yank my hand out of his grasp and fold my arms violently across my chest, not caring to apologize when one of my elbows jabs his side in the process.

Jeff starts floundering, trying to backtrack, to steer me in a false direction. "No, of course not, why would this be about us, I mean…" But he knows I'm no dummy; he quickly gives up his charade and heaves a heavy sigh that puffs a small cloud through the cold air.

"Okay, _fine_," he says. "I am referring to us."

"Why do you always do this, Jeff?" I demand, scooting away from him. "We're having a great night, free of any kind of awkwardness, and then you go and bring up the elephant in the room. Which, _newsflash_, isn't even an elephant anymore! Clearly our friends would not care if we dated, and you know how _I _feel. The only one standing in the way of our relationship is _you_." I kind of can't believe I'm saying all of this, but the words pour from my mouth without consulting my brain first. I talk fast, a tremor distorting the faux-confidence of my tone, and my hands ball into fists within my lap.

"I'm old enough to be your father!" Jeff says rather harshly, frustration barbing each syllable. "Just by me _admitting_ that I like you as more than a friend makes me look like a pervert. I don't want to end up on the receiving end of an interview with Chris Hansen, okay?"

"God, Jeff! I'm _twenty-years-old!_ That's both legal _and_ mature enough to date you! It's not like I'm still a naïve eighteen-year-old who's fresh from high school with a recovering pill addiction anymore. I'm a grown-up!"

"You're not a grown-up; you're not an adult. You're still a kid, Annie. You wear headbands with little flowers on them, and you get squeamish when talking about sex, and you're not even old enough to legally drink yet! How will it look when I go into a bar with my girlfriend and can't even order her anything other than a Shirley Temple?"

"Then we won't go to bars," I say, ignoring all of his other points. "We can go to other places."

"Like where?" Jeff asks, emitting a derisive snort as he adds in a sarcastic tone, "Chuck E. Cheese?"

I glare at him.

"Yeah, we can rendezvous in the giant ball pit and then share a cheap cheese pizza while creepy animatronics sing to us from a poorly-lit stage." His words are sardonic, delivered with an extremely aggravating 'see what I mean?' look directed toward me. It cuts right to the bone, a knife piercing my chest.

"You don't have to make fun of me," I hiss. "You're the real little kid here. You're the one who's _afraid_."

I stand up and rummage through my purse, ducking my head down and willing myself against the sudden urge to start crying. How could such a perfect night turn into something so dark and hurtful? Why does Jeff always have to self-sabotage and ruin everything good between us? Why is he so ashamed of me?

"What are you doing?" He must see me pull out my cell phone because he quickly asks, "Who are you calling?"

I ignore him and start punching in the numbers.

He must have stood up, because suddenly he is at my side, a hesitant hand on my shoulder; I jerk away from his touch but otherwise don't pay him any attention.

"Annie, you're overreacting," he says in his best lawyer smooth-everything-over voice. "Let's sit back down and talk about this."

I have all the numbers ready to go, but I don't hit 'Send' just yet. Instead, I fix Jeff with the sharpest look I can muster. This time _I_ want to slice right into _him_. It's only fair.

"I want to go home. And I don't want you to take me."

Jeff takes this exasperated breath, as if I'm a petulant kid he's babysitting. "You want me to treat you like an adult? Then stop acting like a child and we can talk about this."

I shake my head, infuriated. "I am _not_ acting like a child! You're being _mean!_" I realize it _is_ sort of a childish thing to say, the vague accusation of someone being 'mean,' the word coming out as a whine, and I hate Jeff so much for being even the slightest bit right about anything right now.

"Seriously, Jeff," I say, fighting to keep control of the quiver wanting to work its way through my voice. "Why are you so ashamed of me?" I hate how it comes out, like a broken whisper, like all of my vulnerability has just been ripped from within me and hung on display. Not at all like the defiant, disgusted, and _powerful_ tone I'd intended. I feel almost naked, and I reflexively tighten my arms around my middle, trying to cover myself from view, to wrap myself up like my own security blanket.

There is a large lump materializing in my dried throat, and it now hurts when I swallow. I realize I am on the verge of tears, and I feel so pathetic and truly childish that it takes everything in me not to flat-out run away from him.

All of the defensive anger and irritation slips right off of Jeff's face, as if I've just scrubbed him clean with a rag: he's utterly blank. And then his lips flatten into one, and his eyes glow with a sadness and tiredness that make him appear at least five years older. Frown lines crease his forehead, splay just a tad around that mouth of his. A mouth that is always in control and always spinning things to go his way. But right now, he couldn't look anymore defeated.

I have to turn away, because it's like his vulnerability has been yanked from him by a cold fist, just like mine, and though I've often daydreamed of seeing Jeff naked (don't judge me), it's always been in the Sexy Time way. Not like this. Not this nudity, more sad than scandalous, like I'm reading his diary or stroking a finger over his very soul. It makes me feel invasive.

Since my eyes, which are – God, could this night _get_ any worse? – blurred with tears, are cast onto the ground as if they'll burn away if I look anywhere else, I jump at sudden physical contact. Jeff's arms are slipping around me, pulling me into him, and his chin rests atop my head.

"I'm not ashamed of you," he says, so quietly, so completely devoid of his usual bravado, that I wonder if I'm imagining it at first. If maybe this whole night is a dream, a nightmare, maybe even a rendezvous I'm acting out in the Dreamatorium, crazy as that would be – it's all so surreal. But there's also the feeling of his chin, digging sort of uncomfortably into my scalp; and the warmth and strength of his arms, pressing me against him with urgency now, as if he's afraid that relaxing his grip even the tiniest bit would send me flying away on a gust of wind.

And, of course, there's the pounding of my heart, smashing right into my chest; and the way my cold tears have spilled over, landing with minute splashes upon Jeff's shoulder; and there's the frigid air seeping through my mittens, and the sound of Jeff's and my ragged breaths puffing little clouds into the crisp air. So I know that, for better or for worse, this _is_ happening right now, and it's as real as you can get.

"I'm…I'm not ashamed of you, Annie," he repeats, and I'm glad he does, because the words didn't really register with me the first time. But now he's speaking louder, though still with an alarming lack of his trademark confidence, so I'm able to catch and hold onto every syllable. "Don't ever say that again, okay? You're…" – I feel his intake of breath all through his body, then the warmth of it as he releases, spreading across my head, containing the next word with it. – "…_amazing_."

For some reason, his compliment just makes me want to cry harder. But I'm able to keep the tears at bay, blinking about a thousand times in a row to do so, but I remain strong.

My arms are hanging awkwardly at my sides, unable to move too much since Jeff's are so tightly encircled around me. My cell phone is still in my hand, finger still hovering over the button, even though I no longer have any intention of hitting 'Send.'

It has been too much for one night. Too much wonderfulness and happiness in the beginning, and now too much confusion and anger and pity. And I really, _really_ just want to go home.

"Take me home, Jeff," I say, my tone colorless and wrinkled, like something frail and old that has no swing left, no more punches. "I just want to go home…_please_."

I can feel Jeff nodding, chin chaffing against my hair as he does so. "Okay," he says. And it's crazy, because the second he steps away from me, taking his arms with him and leaving me with a sudden rush of cold air that chills me right to the bone, I miss him. I want him to hold me again, and maybe this time I'll even hug him back. But my homesickness is too strong for any other emotion to win out right now.

We get into Jeff's car, and I notice that he doesn't open the door for me this time. And it's stupid that it bothers me, because it really shouldn't, and I don't _think_ I really expected him to, but it still sort of does make my heart sink a bit lower.

He starts up the car, the heater blasting, and we're on our way. The hot air is welcome at first, but soon it becomes stifling, suffocating, and my intense urge to be back in my apartment intensifies.

I look down at my phone, at the number still shining expectantly up at me, right under the contact name: 'Abed.' Complete with a picture of him dressed up as Han Solo, striking a somehow both dramatic and goofy pose, trademark finger-pistols a-blazin'. I can hear him, echoing in my head, those silly sounds: _"Pew. Pew, pew, pew._"

My homesickness hits a fever pitch.

* * *

><p>I exit Jeff's car without saying good-bye. I don't even look at him, not even a nod of recognition. I'm honestly not being spiteful; I just know that it would be too awkward to acknowledge him, and the sooner I can put this night past me, the better.<p>

I can't get up to my apartment soon enough, but _finally_ my key is twisting in the lock…but wait, it's unlocked… Which means Troy must have gotten home early, because I know I locked up when I left, and Troy always forgets to lock up behind him. They are lucky to have me as a roommate, if for no other reason than my safety habits.

Before entering, I check my reflection in my compact mirror. Thankfully, it isn't noticeable that I cried a little, and the grin I force at myself is actually even believable. _You're going to be fine, Annie,_ I tell myself, coming _this_ close to patting myself on the back, but deciding against it because, really, how low can one person go in one night in terms of patheticness?

I close the door behind me, flipping the lock and even the slipping the chainlink one too, feeling a strange relish in the finality. Sealing myself in for the night, keeping away the demons that run after me with gnashing jaws and bared claws, ready to sink their teeth right into my heart and make me start crying again. And that is _so_ not going to happen, because my mascara is waterproof and all, but I really don't feel like tonight is the right time to test its limits.

"Annie!"

I turn to Troy's excited greeting; the smile that stretches across my face may be close-lipped, but it isn't even forced.

Because seeing him and Abed sitting together on the couch, flipping through comic books, their sock-covered feet propped up on the coffee table, makes everything suddenly feel good and right with the world. Well…except for maybe the fact that their _feet_ are _on the coffee table,_ _ugh!_, even though they both know I _just_ cleaned it earlier today.

"Hey, guys," I say, breathing this deep, soothing breath that erases any lingering negativity within me. I ignore the exhaustion from all the arguing with Jeff, and try to focus on the here and now; I feel fresher already.

"You're home early," says Abed, nodding to me in this pleased way, dark brown eyes crinkling in a both speculating and friendly manner.

"Yeah," I say. "So is Troy." I turn to the shorter boy, colorful comic spread open in his lap, a lollipop dangling like James Dean's cigarette from his lips, staining tongue and mouth a bright red.

He pops the lolli out with this dramatic sound, and there's cat-caught-the-canary attitude glittering within his chocolate-colored eyes so prevalently, that I'm almost afraid to hear what he has to say.

"Britta and I watched a movie at her place," he says _too_ casually, triumphant smirk stamped across smug face. "We _watched_ a _movie_, if you know what I mean." He waggles his eyebrows up and down, and I can't contain an epic eye roll at this.

"Troy, that's not a euphemism," I say. "It doesn't sound _at all_ like a sexual innuendo, and just because you emphasize words, that doesn't give them a double-meaning." I take off my mittens and scarf and winter coat, hang them on the pegs of the wooden coat rack, before dangling my purse there, too. I am stripped down, white sweater and navy miniskirt and black tights, but I still feel like a turtle within her shell. And I'm not going to come out tonight. Maybe tomorrow, but not just yet.

"Yeah," Abed agrees, sending me a nod as I walk over to the armchair to the right of the couch and plop down. "That didn't sound sexual at all." And though he's speaking to Troy, his eyes remain locked on me, and I just _know_ that he knows something happened tonight between me and Jeff. Something that did 'not at all please' me, as he would probably put it.

Troy's eyebrows crease, a cross between perplexed and agitated. "What are you guys talking about? What's a 'you-feminism?' That sounds like something Britta would be into. And an 'in-you-en-_dough_'…hmmm, is that like a cookie? 'Cause you know, Britta and I _had cookies_ tonight, if you know what I mean." And he commences his celebratory eyebrow dance; I half expect them to grow hands, hold each other's, and then do the wave.

And, okay, this thought might have a genuine giggle warming me from the inside-out, and maybe my groan is a bit more affectionate than disgusted. "Please, spare us the details of your baking! I don't want to think about _cookies_ right now, okay? Or _any_ other kind of dessert. For my sake, please go on a sugar diet…_forever_."

Abed leans over and plucks the lollipop from Troy's mouth; with a careless wrist, he flicks it over his shoulder, letting it clatter onto the hardwood floor. At Troy's offended eyebrow-furrow and dropped jaw, and at my horrified wide-eyes (I _just_ mopped earlier today, too!), Abed shrugs and returns to his comic book.

"Annie said no more sugar," he says, in a tone that implies he has just done a great service to us. "And lollipops are made of cavity-inflicting sugar."

Troy smacks the palm of his hand against his forehead. "_Nooo_, Abed, we don't _actually_ mean cookies and sugar and stuff! Britta and I had – "

I interrupt him before he can finish that sentence, because my sanity can only take so much for one night. "Okay!" I clap my hands together…loudly. "So how about that detention scene?"

* * *

><p>Nothing will take your mind off your own troubles more thoroughly than being another person.<p>

There is something comfortingly foreign in slipping into the skin of somebody else, stripping away your tribulations the moment you take on theirs. Because problems are always easy to solve when they're not your own.

The wardrobe slides over my body like battle armor, protecting me from my own thoughts, and suddenly the world is no longer such a scary place. I take great pleasure in the reflection staring back at me from the bathroom mirror: it is my own, but it's not really me.

Short red wig with a stylish flip to the ends, pale pink blouse with roomy sleeves, and a tragically long, chocolate-brown skirt: I am no longer Annie Edison; I am Claire Standish, reporting for duty. One pivotal -turning-point movie scene coming right up.

I roll my shoulders back, lift my chin, flick the light off behind me, and step out of the bathroom.

Troy and Abed are already in full costume, sitting around the couch, on the floor of our living room that is now officially a library.

Troy comes into view first, and the sight of him brings back a flood of high school memories, a surge of emotions that make me instantly feel sixteen years old again.

He is playing Andrew Clark: his ensemble is a royal blue tank top that shows off his muscular arms, a simple pair of jeans, and white tennis shoes. But it's the Riverside High letterman jacket hanging on the arm of the couch beside him, one of the many layers Andrew strips away over the course of the movie, that reminds me of all the insecurities and self-consciousness that plagued me back then.

But it also reminds me of the ever-present hope I always felt for the vast, blank eternity of a future stretching so close yet so far in front of me, ready for me to claim it as my own and steer life in the direction I wanted it to go when I was ready. Back then, anything felt possible, no dream too crazy to reach. I wonder what High School Annie would do if she met College Annie. Would she be happy for me? Proud? Pissed off? Disappointed? I honestly don't know, and this fact leaves me greatly unsettled.

A few extra steps forward, and suddenly my eyes land on Abed, perched diagonally from Troy, at first hidden from view by the position of the couch.

And seeing him there in typical Bad Boy attire, his hair mussed and fingerless-gloves on and the red plaid of his shirt bringing out the russet tint of his skin, makes me stop mid-step.

He is looking down at his fingernails carelessly, complete boredom and criminal indifference etched all across his face, and I know that he has already transformed from Abed Nadir to John Bender, probably taking no longer than the blink of an eye, in that utterly flawless way only he can do.

Troy starts laughing good-naturedly upon seeing me in my costume. "Annie as a redhead!" he says with sheer delight, his face lighting up in that innocent, almost-childlike joy that he so often possesses. "You know, you actually kind of pull it off, girl."

Abed looks up at this, and the moment our eyes lock, I see him break character for just a second. He sits up straighter, question marks dancing in his pupils, eyebrows inching toward each other so minimally that the action is almost imperceptible.

And I can't control the shy, close-lipped grin that tugs my pink-lip-sticked mouth upward, or how my fingers shoot up to my wig, patting down the soft auburn hair.

"Don't you think Annie looks as hot as Mary Jane Watson or Cheryl Blossom?" Troy asks Abed. "Well, more like the Little Mermaid, I guess, with her big eyes and stuff."

I break eye-contact and look down at the ground, my cheeks and neck warming, surely growing redder than my wig.

"She's not Annie right now," says Abed. "Just like you are no longer Troy. She's Claire, and you're Andrew, so your question is invalid."

"_Whoooaaa_," Troy breathes, as if the secret to the whole universe has just been explained to him. "So, we're like a person…within a person! Dude, we're like the human versions of _Inception_! We're the most badass people _ever!_"

I have to look over at Troy's extremely thrilled face at this, unable to contain a wave of laughter. "You just described _all_ actors then," I point out. "Or anyone who puts on a costume. Not just us. You do know that, right?"

Troy's gaze flicks to the ceiling, a small vertical line appearing between his thoughtful eyebrows. "Wait…a person within a person…" He gasps, scandalized. "So, like, that means that pregnant women were the first to do the whole 'thing-within-a-thing'… thing. Which means that Christopher Nolan totally ripped off Eve!" His gaze falls back to me and Abed, and upon registering our incredulous expressions, he adds, "You know, Eve! From Adam and Eve, the first people in the Bible?" Yeah, as if _that's_ what we were so nonplussed about.

"Anyway," Troy waves a dismissive hand through the air, "my point is, Annie – uh, I mean, _Claire_ – you make a smokin' hot redhead. It makes your pale skin look extra glow-y."

"Thanks." I tug at the ends of my wig, wanting to start the scene already so I can stop being Annie and finally get to be somebody else for a little bit.

"Yes, you make a very aesthetically pleasing Claire," Abed says. "Though I must say I of course prefer your natural hair color."

"Thanks," I say again, that stubborn warmth returning to my face. "You guys look really nice, too. Very stereotypical jock and bad boy, and you both pull it off very well."

Abed and Troy chime their gratitude, and then Abed switches into Director Mode, reminding us of our individual characters' motivations and secret yearnings, and then of the group's motivation and yearnings as a whole. We're short two characters – Brian and Allison – but Abed insists we can make do with a few strategic "creative maneuverings," as he puts it.

And so we get going, Abed slipping smoothly from Director to Bender, yet another role he was born to play. At first, I'm not going to lie, it's pretty awkward. I've never participated in something to this grand of a scale with the boys before – usually we stick to shadow-puppet shows, or something fun and silly, like knights and princesses and such. But now we're dealing with real human characters, who have real human emotions, and I feel pressured to get it right.

Troy and I don't have really any of the lines memorized (unlike Abed, who knows every syllable, every _breath_ of his part), so paraphrasing is a must. I think I at least do better than Troy, who keeps breaking character by flexing his bulging muscles to the tune of his and Abed's signature Muzak that he keeps humming under his breath, apparently bored with the serious scene and its lack of Horsebot 3000. And he _completely_ ruins Andrew's dramatic reveal because he can't stop immaturely giggling over saying the words "hairy butt." … _Ugh_.

But Abed never once falters from his role, and I myself find that as each line passes, I leave a piece of Annie behind and replace her with some of Claire, like swapping out one jigsaw puzzle for another, the picture completely changing its shape and colors, but the concept staying the same.

I transfer all of my pent-up emotions from the night into my acting; it makes it all feel almost therapeutic in a way. And when we get to my most dramatic part near the end of our scene, when Bender goads Claire, ripping into her every insecurity and making her façade finally crumble as tears well in her eyes, I find that though I had been dreading this part from the beginning, I end up enjoying it the most.

Sure, it reopens all of my loosely-stitched wounds from the night, makes my heart throb like a bruise, makes a barrage of tears sting my eyes like salt to a sore. But I feel I do Claire justice – I feel I do _myself_ justice – as I cry and yell "shut up!" at Jeff. … No, I mean, at Abed-as-Bender, of course.

It's like a dam has burst, and I can't get the stupid tears to stop leaking from my eyes, as if my whole existence is one big joke, one big faulty plumbing.

"Annnnnd…_cut!_" Abed finally, _mercifully_ says, clapping his hands together and dropping away John Bender as quickly as if he's letting a loose coat fall from his shoulders and onto the ground. He sheds personas as easily as he sheds clothing, and changes them just as often, wearing a new one each day, though some favorites are weekly staples.

"Great job, everyone!" he says, nodding at both Troy and me proudly, encouragingly, though his gaze does linger on mine for just a few seconds longer, seeming to soften as I swipe beneath my eyes.

"My only critique, really, is for Troy," Abed adds, all business. "It broke the dramatic, supposed-to-be-melancholic mood when you kept laughing during your monologue. That was a very vulnerable and pivotal moment for Andrew, and I felt that your constant chuckling ruined it. And your bicep-dance and humming detracted from Bender and Claire's fight, undermining the seriousness of it."

Troy threw his hands up in exasperation. "Sorry, man, but what do you expect from me? There are a few things that have been scientifically proven to be completely hilarious, like dogs in sweaters or old white people rapping on YouTube, and the words 'hairy butt' are one of them!"

"I think if you stayed connected with your character and kept your mind on the role, then you could be an amazing actor," says Abed. "I'm just trying to give my invaluable input." He shrugs, and I kind of get the feeling that he's a little bit annoyed.

"Thanks, man!" Troy says, focusing just on the 'you could be an amazing actor' part. He grins from ear to ear, oblivious as always to the bigger picture. "It was actually a lotta fun! The acting, I mean. Flawless performance from you, as always, dude. And _daaammmn,_ Annie! You could've won an Oscar Meyer for your skills, you know? _Very_ believable."

I can't help but giggle and smile genuinely. "Thanks, Troy, but it's just an Oscar. _Oscar Meyer_ is a brand of hot dogs."

"Okay, well, you deserve, like, a thousand hot dogs for that _and_ a trophy!" he insists adamantly. "Seeing you cry like that, as if it really made you sad, made _me_ want to cry, too." He rubs his knuckles in a circle across his heart. "It hit close to home."

"Yeah, you did a great job, Annie," Abed says. "A very believable, honest performance. You're a great actress." He reaches a hand over to one of mine, rested atop my knee. He pats the back of it, and as he starts to pull away, I turn mine over, fingers curling around his, grabbing on for dear life.

Our eyes connect; all the sadness and despair and tiredness of tonight weighing down mine, while his are as unreadable and unaffected as always.

But in the moment his grasp tightens around my own, I know he could tell I hadn't really been acting at all.


End file.
